Okay this is pissing me off. It's two in the morning and I am sat writing this moanathon, which you might be glad to hear, is my last in the series. You might be over the moon with this idea because finally my, decreasing in popularity, reasons for grumpiness is coming to an end. I have taken you through my bog standard day, and I bet you're not impressed. It took a lot longer than what I thought it would, and it has nearly killed my exam effort. The fact that at this time in the morning I could be doing Maths is beyond me. In fact my head is starting to hurt so much from all this moaning, that I just don't know if I can stand up or not. Regardless, I must finish.
Well the most annoying thing about not being able to get to sleep, is the fact that there is nothing to do. There is never anything thing on TV, the Internet is always off and I have completed all of my Pokémon games too many bloody times. So that leaves one question, 'How the fuck do I cope?' The answer is I don't. I try and I try to get to sleep but I just cant do it. No matter how hard I fucking try. I have even tried all the coffee in the world, it just doesn't help.
Now the thing with the TV is that there might be something on until like twelve, but then it just gets shit. Unless its the Super Ball where I will stay up until dawn watching a sport I have no idea what the fuck is going on. A bit like cricket really. So I will often get bored and sit on the couch. Not watching anything, and not doing anything. Just sat there like a potato. An actual potato.
But that's not all I can be bored at. It wouldn't be as bad if I had the internet with me, but unfortunately my lap top just seems to die after about Ten Thirty when the power has been cut. This one of the reasons why I have wrote all this on paper first. The other reason is my curse, which is dyslexia. If you don't have dyslexia then you don't know what its like, and if you do then you don't know what its like, as I like to think myself as unique, but I know I'm not. The hardship I have to go through by writing these things of crap. I have to treble check my spelling and grammar. And even after that I don't normally get it right. In fact I will take more time checking these piles of paper, than I do actually writing them. The most annoying thing is that I actually use to enjoy writing these and now they have become a chore.
So where was I? What Japan needs to do it create more Pokémon games on the Gameboy. No I don't want a new version with different Pokémon, I want an original game with the same Pokémon. I mean how hard can it be to do this? But no I bought one of these new games for the Gameboy advance and it was a massive let down. They have all gotten so bloody ugly. Before the Pokémon looked natural, but now they look like Frankenstein's monsters. I know it's wrong to discriminate someone over their looks, but I have to say it, what a bunch of wankers.
So as I have to battle several battles when I'm awake when I shouldn't be. And boredom is the most annoying one of the lot. Battles that is. Everyone knows what I mean when I say boredom sucks ass. The hollow emptiness of my insides makes my eyes water. Not in the sense that I'm crying obviously. And to save any manly pride I have left, I never cry. Okay that's a lie. I cried pretty much all the way through Forest Gump. What? It's a sad movie. Oh shut up.
So I have to find things to do. And one night I actually watched all my Family Guy DVD's. So that means that I have gotten through series 1 – 7 without sleep. Yeah that was hard, but you know I did get to go to sleep afterwards. Also, I have bought a lot of movies. Every time I see one on offer, I have to go and buy it. Its like a freaking obsession. The only thing I haven't done yet, is replace all my old Videos. And believe me I am God damn close to doing this. The only thing that is in my way is the fact that I have no money. Oh, and another thing, I might be doing soon, is watching dads entire seasons of Star Trek. You see I've already watched the good one that the Trekies hate, but I like, because it has the guy from Quantum Leap in it. And that's why I'm not a Trekie. Got it? I'm not one.
But the worst thing about staying awake at night is that you have the biggest cravings to eat, ever. (Bigger that the whole white sheet craze in the American 1960's. They looked like ghosts.) This is fine for me as I'm a skinny bastard that needs feeding up, but someone has to clean the dishes in the morning, and usually, its not me. Yes every morning I get moaned at for not washing up after myself. But to be completely fair, my whole family don't clean up after themselves. Especially my Dad. What a bastard. He is always on my back to clean up my room and turn off the electrics. He is too stupid to take a shower instead of a bath. For fucks sake, the shower takes up less energy and water, therefore it cost less. What a numbskull.
So what am I going to do after I have finished this? Probably stay up until 5 watching porn. No I'm joking about that, I usually watch porn during the day. What I might do is have some toast. It is easy to clean up and maybe, later in the morning, my Mum wont moan at me for leaving a mess. But I bet she does. The thing is that now I have actually placed this bet, by the time I have posted this moan, it will be morning, and so I will know the answer. So, Goodbye and have a pleasant Tomorrow, which is now today.
But before I go, and now your cursing because I have already said Goodbye, I have one more moan. In fact its rather peculiar that the only way to understand is through a jonty little tune. But as this is on paper it is hard for me to sing while you read. So I'm just going to tell you striate, I have to go running in half an hour to train for a marathon. Yes I am that insane.
Friday 29 May 2009
Sunday 24 May 2009
Womble's infinite reasons for grumpiness – Part 4 Home time joy
At the precise second I am sat in Business Studies, looking at a Unit 6 past paper. I am not about to take a moment to explain how Business Studies is ran, and the large amounts of Units within it. If you do not do Business Studies at A-Level with the exam board AQA, just understand that this is a very hard paper. Another thing to maybe mention about this past paper, is that it has two pages about Domino's Pizza and its integration to the UK. And by the way, if you "exam writers" are reading this, which I doubt, be sure to note that, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK, HOW BY 2015 THEY WISH TO OWN 1000 UK OUTLETS. How could they have made something like pizza so . . . boring? Yet another thing to note is, that on the front of this paper, at the very bottom of the front sheet, it says “6/6/6.” I think that about sums it all up really.
There is one thing I am not looking forward to doing this Friday evening. That is going home. For your information, no I don't really regard myself as a nerd. (Well I like comics, but I'm not a nerd because I call them comics and not “graphic novels” to make me sound a little more intelligent, but all you are doing with that is making you sound like an idiot.) Okay, if I can rant about comics then yes I'm a nerd, but not in the sense that I enjoy college to the point that I never want to leave the place. In all honesty, I would rather not have gone to college today at all. Every other day is fine but Friday is my most annoying day. Not because my Friday socks have holes in them in the most ridiculous places, like on the top of the sock, (how on earth I managed to do this is way past my understanding. (And my bed time.)) but because Friday holds my longest tiring day of the proverbial week.
So at 4.15 I'm out of lesson. Out of college and off home. Bollocks. On Fridays I am always welcomed home with my sister watching, and most of all, hogging the TV. Yes that is right, the discombobulating noncancerous bollocks that is today's television programs, plagues my house. What ever happened to the good old stuff like, Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain. No! Now I have to live with modern day crap and soap operas that slowly rot my insides. “Dramas” like 902108567200410 and “Waterloo Road???” torment me into hiding in my bedroom 24hours a day. Yes I live in my bedroom. This isn't weird at all for a 17 year old teenager.
At this point, and I seem to say that an increasingly amount these days, I would like to add that I regret starting this chain of crap from which I might have been born from. Not only does it keep me up at night thinking how the next moan is going to pan out, with all its complexities of life, but I also forget what the fuck I am on about. And that is occurring way too often for comfort.
So I'm back home at this winter(/summer as that is what it practically is now) of my dis contempt. And there is one Television program that my sister, and the rest of the family I might add, insist on watching every blood day. This is comedy show, that I loved so much in my younger days, but now hate as it brings a fresh warm sensation of blood to my face, is called Friends. The fact that E4 choose to have the whole of the 10 seasons on loop every bloody month is one thing. But my sister has every single episode on DVD. BIG MISTAKE! In fact, it would be a very uncommon thing to find me watching a friends episode that I haven't seen before. This is because I have seen every bloody episode about ten million times. Okay maybe a tiny bit less than that. (I'll say that again.) I've seen them all 6 times, (better?) which is plenty enough. So thank you Rebecca Womble, and I know you are reading this, God (that is me) will damn you for ruining my comedy shows. I brought it into this house and you personally destroyed every single iota of happiness that was given from it.
Moving on! I am now up to the point where I am going to slag off Facebook. If you are reading this off my Blogger page, which I doubt as it seems nobody in the Blogger community is interested in my moanings, and they have every right to ignore it, then you might be confused, but I am writing this for myself and nobody else. I say myself but it is hard to write anything at the moment. The thing is I am actually happy at this point in my life. It is so hard to moan about life when you are happy with life itself, which by the way, is something to moan about. Paradox, the annoyance of satirical writer, is happiness. (Thank you Nathan for that one.) And essentially, when I need to be grumpy, when I am writing these chronicles. I must be the only person in the world, at the moment, that wants to be sad. Makes you think doesn't it?
So, Facebook at my house on a Friday afternoon. What a complete letdown. I came upstairs to get away from the complexities of modern life, and nobody bloody talks to me. (Of cause with the exception of my loyal readers, which I would like to suggest is not many.) But the point is nobody writes on my wall any more (if they did in the first place), in fact nobody even has a second glance at my profile in general. The whole point in Facebook is that you comment on things that you wouldn't usually comment on. And yes Nathan, that means you! If you are reading this just comment. Its easy. Makes me feel good about myself.
Now I've blown it. I have gone all preaching and desperate for attention again. Quick phone the doctors...
Another thing with Facebook is it's chat. It is the most arduous thing I have ever came across! And you know what . . . Myspace have stolen the idea and made worse. I wasn't aware of this until I clicked on a link the other day. My God why cant Facebook just give my friends my MSN and then I wont have to hear the infernal POP every time someone press's enter. And its God damn faster that Facebook anyway. Oh, hang on a sec . . . it does give my friends my MSN. Then its your fault, my loyal “friends,” most of which I don't know, use your common sense and think about me for once.
Okay now you can see I'm starting to ramble and preach a bit too much. And if you can actually see me typing away at my computer I am one scared person. Please just tap me on the shoulder and say hi. Oh the suspence is killing me. Are you there or not. No you are not theretyvhju
There is one thing I am not looking forward to doing this Friday evening. That is going home. For your information, no I don't really regard myself as a nerd. (Well I like comics, but I'm not a nerd because I call them comics and not “graphic novels” to make me sound a little more intelligent, but all you are doing with that is making you sound like an idiot.) Okay, if I can rant about comics then yes I'm a nerd, but not in the sense that I enjoy college to the point that I never want to leave the place. In all honesty, I would rather not have gone to college today at all. Every other day is fine but Friday is my most annoying day. Not because my Friday socks have holes in them in the most ridiculous places, like on the top of the sock, (how on earth I managed to do this is way past my understanding. (And my bed time.)) but because Friday holds my longest tiring day of the proverbial week.
So at 4.15 I'm out of lesson. Out of college and off home. Bollocks. On Fridays I am always welcomed home with my sister watching, and most of all, hogging the TV. Yes that is right, the discombobulating noncancerous bollocks that is today's television programs, plagues my house. What ever happened to the good old stuff like, Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain. No! Now I have to live with modern day crap and soap operas that slowly rot my insides. “Dramas” like 902108567200410 and “Waterloo Road???” torment me into hiding in my bedroom 24hours a day. Yes I live in my bedroom. This isn't weird at all for a 17 year old teenager.
At this point, and I seem to say that an increasingly amount these days, I would like to add that I regret starting this chain of crap from which I might have been born from. Not only does it keep me up at night thinking how the next moan is going to pan out, with all its complexities of life, but I also forget what the fuck I am on about. And that is occurring way too often for comfort.
So I'm back home at this winter(/summer as that is what it practically is now) of my dis contempt. And there is one Television program that my sister, and the rest of the family I might add, insist on watching every blood day. This is comedy show, that I loved so much in my younger days, but now hate as it brings a fresh warm sensation of blood to my face, is called Friends. The fact that E4 choose to have the whole of the 10 seasons on loop every bloody month is one thing. But my sister has every single episode on DVD. BIG MISTAKE! In fact, it would be a very uncommon thing to find me watching a friends episode that I haven't seen before. This is because I have seen every bloody episode about ten million times. Okay maybe a tiny bit less than that. (I'll say that again.) I've seen them all 6 times, (better?) which is plenty enough. So thank you Rebecca Womble, and I know you are reading this, God (that is me) will damn you for ruining my comedy shows. I brought it into this house and you personally destroyed every single iota of happiness that was given from it.
Moving on! I am now up to the point where I am going to slag off Facebook. If you are reading this off my Blogger page, which I doubt as it seems nobody in the Blogger community is interested in my moanings, and they have every right to ignore it, then you might be confused, but I am writing this for myself and nobody else. I say myself but it is hard to write anything at the moment. The thing is I am actually happy at this point in my life. It is so hard to moan about life when you are happy with life itself, which by the way, is something to moan about. Paradox, the annoyance of satirical writer, is happiness. (Thank you Nathan for that one.) And essentially, when I need to be grumpy, when I am writing these chronicles. I must be the only person in the world, at the moment, that wants to be sad. Makes you think doesn't it?
So, Facebook at my house on a Friday afternoon. What a complete letdown. I came upstairs to get away from the complexities of modern life, and nobody bloody talks to me. (Of cause with the exception of my loyal readers, which I would like to suggest is not many.) But the point is nobody writes on my wall any more (if they did in the first place), in fact nobody even has a second glance at my profile in general. The whole point in Facebook is that you comment on things that you wouldn't usually comment on. And yes Nathan, that means you! If you are reading this just comment. Its easy. Makes me feel good about myself.
Now I've blown it. I have gone all preaching and desperate for attention again. Quick phone the doctors...
Another thing with Facebook is it's chat. It is the most arduous thing I have ever came across! And you know what . . . Myspace have stolen the idea and made worse. I wasn't aware of this until I clicked on a link the other day. My God why cant Facebook just give my friends my MSN and then I wont have to hear the infernal POP every time someone press's enter. And its God damn faster that Facebook anyway. Oh, hang on a sec . . . it does give my friends my MSN. Then its your fault, my loyal “friends,” most of which I don't know, use your common sense and think about me for once.
Okay now you can see I'm starting to ramble and preach a bit too much. And if you can actually see me typing away at my computer I am one scared person. Please just tap me on the shoulder and say hi. Oh the suspence is killing me. Are you there or not. No you are not theretyvhju
Friday 15 May 2009
Wombles infinite reasons for grumpiness – Part 3 COLLEGE!!
Humph-re-humph! That's Latin for the famous saying, “humph-re-humph.” You see you do learn something knew everyday. Usually with me, though, it's the same thing, each and everyday. Not out of stupidity, or even forgetfulness, but out of pure and solemn humph-re-humphfrulness. Now you may complain that isn't how you spell humphfrulness in either Latin or English. Well I would tell you the in dyslextorian, you spell a lot of words controversial to their English counterparts. In fact, right this minute, I'm using the spell checker vigorously.
Well that was a completely random paragraph. What was I going to say? Oh yes, humph-re-humph, I've just got to college, but I'm later than the Postman is delivering my mail on a bank holiday Monday. For those of you that do not go to High Pavement College for the mentally retarded, then you wont know that being 5 minutes late for a lesson means they lock the doors and say “No Dogs Aloud!” I personally think this is a stupid rule, and for once, a massive fire and safety hazard. It wont be too long before they realise this and say “Oh mighty Womble, thank you for being fantastic and completely correct on this is, and every, issue.” Okay I'm not that big headed, they wont just grovel they will build a huge statue of me, in my honour when I leave. On the roof. Shaped like a Penis! And they don't really lock the doors... Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, and possible other Wombles that might be reading this, I told a little fib. Very shocking, is it not? No, they only put a mental barrier, causing shame towards all your family for your tardiness, if you do walk in late. And then, tell you to piss off.
And if you do go to High Pavement College, then well done you just managed to read two pointless paragraphs, and this being the third.
So on this odd occasion, I am late to lesson. But do not fear, all my teachers at High Pavement are actually rather nice and let me in anyway. But my drama teacher on the other hand, at Clarendon College, known for the vast amounts of Chavs that live there, does not let me into lessons when I am late. (This is the point where I need to explain a few things to almost all of my readers that do not do A-levels, or any other course at NCN. NCN meaning New College (that seams surprisingly old) Nottingham. NCN is spread over 5 – 10 colleges around and in Nottingham. I say 5-10 because nobody is actually 100% sure on the true figure. Two of these Colleges include High Pavement Sixth Form College and Clarendon College. As you may of guessed High Pavement is where all the clever/dumb people go to do their A-levels. (I say clever/dumb because you have to be both clever and stupid to do any A-levels, anywhere.) Now High Pavement does not take on certain retarded A-levels. (Which is God damned rude in my opinion.) So if you think Drama is easy, and you want to do it then you have to prance all the way from the centre of Nottingham to Clarendon College every bloody day. Bastards!) And that makes a fourth pointless paragraph if you already knew this information.
There are numerous amounts of moans I should make to give an adequate self-fulfilment of my desired task to slag off Clarendon College. I will try and cram everything in as best as I can but my mind is very impatient and wants some ice cream. And to be honest I don't know how much longer I can keep my urges at bay. So I can't promise this will be a fast read. Hell I'm still in the flaming introduction!
I'm going to start (yes start) at the very beginning. The entrance to Clarendon College is a mess. For starters there are entrance several doors, all automatic, but mainly closed and locked. The only door a student is aloud to travel through is the main entrance. This is damned inconvenient for me as the stupid main door positioned itself 1 mile away from the drama department. It should live next to my drama lesson and be a happy door. But the thing that pisses me off so much is that there is a locked entrance to the College right next to my bloody bus stop. This door is a sad door that's conveniently next to my drama room, just to piss me off. Not only do I have to walk a mile from the main entrance to get to my drama room but I have to walk another mile from the bus stop to God damned main entrance. A pointless 2 mile walk in one day. Wait, it's four miles cause I have to do it all over again when I come out of lesson.
I apologise for the inconvenience but I still haven't finished “going on” about the main entrance. I will give you a break from reading to do whatever you have to do . . . NOW! And if you didn't take the break this is an instant paragraph change. Also this makes a fifth pointless paragraph and yes I had loss count and had to scroll up my laptop screen to see what we were on.
So the main entrance. Not only is it hard to get to, and from the main entrance, but it's a bitch walking through it. I am talking about security. They have security guards situated at the door, and most annoyingly, security gates. These can only be opened, from the outside, with your college I.D card. (I will get back to the security guards later, don't you worry.) The scanners are terrible. I have no idea which way the cards are meant to go. And most of all I don't know how they work. I have been going to this College for two years and still haven't got a clue. Yes folks, for two years I have sneaked in the College, behind someone else after they open the gate with their I.D card. Which makes the whole idea pointless in the first place. I have heard a rummer that someone, a couple of years ago now, posted on the internet, that they would come to their old college (Clarendon (as you have probably guessed)) and shoot everyone they see. This is slightly believable because, hey, it is Nottingham, so yes tighten security by all means, but all this gunman would have to do is copy what I have been doing for two years. The guard's don't help either (Told you I would get back to it.) All they do all day is walk around the café, chatting up the cooks. They are helped by this because, conveniently, the café is directly next to the main entrance. The guards aren't very clever either. I swore I saw some stranger, walk up to one of the guards and ask if he could be let in. And guess what, the guard let him in. The idiots. That postman could have been anyone.
I've kind of forgotten what the main purpose of me writing this was in the first place. I'm aware that, through all this moaning, I haven't even mentioned it once and I've already gone on far too long. So, I apologise yet again. You will have to bear with me. The thing with writing is that I can take all the time in the world to complete it and you would never know. Actually, all the time in the world at one given moment is it's own paradox. To get the one given moment you require, you would have to find some way of stopping time. This leading to the point that there would be no time at the one given moment when you have all the time in the world . . .
Bloody hell Nora, I've done it again. But I think I remember what the main goal of this moaning session is about. College cancellations. It's retarded. I never know if a lesson is on or off because I'm never bloody informed. They need to invest in some sort of texting system to let you know when a lesson is off or on. I mean COME ON! Some people have spent a lot of bloody money on the over priced buses (see part 2 of my intellectually moanathon) and get to college and find it was all for bloody nothing. Awesome! And by luck, it happens when I have only one lesson in a day. They are all a bunch of Wazzocks if you ask me!!
I think I will rap it up here. Look deep into your hearts and try to forgive me for my sins of rambling craziness. I do have more to tell you on these, and other, matters so do not even hesitate for a second to ask about them. Please call me on my home phone number: 01623 798723 Nah I'm only kidding, it's not my real phone number . . . OR IS IT? There is only one way to find out now isn't there . . . Also I would like to inform you that this product is none returnable and if you have any problem with the usage, space or the general gist of it then TOUGH! This knowledge has now been passed on to you. Do with it what you must, but do not try and return it. And I must emphasis no dyslextorian-humph-re-humph-wazzocks were harmed in the making of this documentary Until next time (as I might or might not return with more humph-re-humph antics) Goodhello.
Well that was a completely random paragraph. What was I going to say? Oh yes, humph-re-humph, I've just got to college, but I'm later than the Postman is delivering my mail on a bank holiday Monday. For those of you that do not go to High Pavement College for the mentally retarded, then you wont know that being 5 minutes late for a lesson means they lock the doors and say “No Dogs Aloud!” I personally think this is a stupid rule, and for once, a massive fire and safety hazard. It wont be too long before they realise this and say “Oh mighty Womble, thank you for being fantastic and completely correct on this is, and every, issue.” Okay I'm not that big headed, they wont just grovel they will build a huge statue of me, in my honour when I leave. On the roof. Shaped like a Penis! And they don't really lock the doors... Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, and possible other Wombles that might be reading this, I told a little fib. Very shocking, is it not? No, they only put a mental barrier, causing shame towards all your family for your tardiness, if you do walk in late. And then, tell you to piss off.
And if you do go to High Pavement College, then well done you just managed to read two pointless paragraphs, and this being the third.
So on this odd occasion, I am late to lesson. But do not fear, all my teachers at High Pavement are actually rather nice and let me in anyway. But my drama teacher on the other hand, at Clarendon College, known for the vast amounts of Chavs that live there, does not let me into lessons when I am late. (This is the point where I need to explain a few things to almost all of my readers that do not do A-levels, or any other course at NCN. NCN meaning New College (that seams surprisingly old) Nottingham. NCN is spread over 5 – 10 colleges around and in Nottingham. I say 5-10 because nobody is actually 100% sure on the true figure. Two of these Colleges include High Pavement Sixth Form College and Clarendon College. As you may of guessed High Pavement is where all the clever/dumb people go to do their A-levels. (I say clever/dumb because you have to be both clever and stupid to do any A-levels, anywhere.) Now High Pavement does not take on certain retarded A-levels. (Which is God damned rude in my opinion.) So if you think Drama is easy, and you want to do it then you have to prance all the way from the centre of Nottingham to Clarendon College every bloody day. Bastards!) And that makes a fourth pointless paragraph if you already knew this information.
There are numerous amounts of moans I should make to give an adequate self-fulfilment of my desired task to slag off Clarendon College. I will try and cram everything in as best as I can but my mind is very impatient and wants some ice cream. And to be honest I don't know how much longer I can keep my urges at bay. So I can't promise this will be a fast read. Hell I'm still in the flaming introduction!
I'm going to start (yes start) at the very beginning. The entrance to Clarendon College is a mess. For starters there are entrance several doors, all automatic, but mainly closed and locked. The only door a student is aloud to travel through is the main entrance. This is damned inconvenient for me as the stupid main door positioned itself 1 mile away from the drama department. It should live next to my drama lesson and be a happy door. But the thing that pisses me off so much is that there is a locked entrance to the College right next to my bloody bus stop. This door is a sad door that's conveniently next to my drama room, just to piss me off. Not only do I have to walk a mile from the main entrance to get to my drama room but I have to walk another mile from the bus stop to God damned main entrance. A pointless 2 mile walk in one day. Wait, it's four miles cause I have to do it all over again when I come out of lesson.
I apologise for the inconvenience but I still haven't finished “going on” about the main entrance. I will give you a break from reading to do whatever you have to do . . . NOW! And if you didn't take the break this is an instant paragraph change. Also this makes a fifth pointless paragraph and yes I had loss count and had to scroll up my laptop screen to see what we were on.
So the main entrance. Not only is it hard to get to, and from the main entrance, but it's a bitch walking through it. I am talking about security. They have security guards situated at the door, and most annoyingly, security gates. These can only be opened, from the outside, with your college I.D card. (I will get back to the security guards later, don't you worry.) The scanners are terrible. I have no idea which way the cards are meant to go. And most of all I don't know how they work. I have been going to this College for two years and still haven't got a clue. Yes folks, for two years I have sneaked in the College, behind someone else after they open the gate with their I.D card. Which makes the whole idea pointless in the first place. I have heard a rummer that someone, a couple of years ago now, posted on the internet, that they would come to their old college (Clarendon (as you have probably guessed)) and shoot everyone they see. This is slightly believable because, hey, it is Nottingham, so yes tighten security by all means, but all this gunman would have to do is copy what I have been doing for two years. The guard's don't help either (Told you I would get back to it.) All they do all day is walk around the café, chatting up the cooks. They are helped by this because, conveniently, the café is directly next to the main entrance. The guards aren't very clever either. I swore I saw some stranger, walk up to one of the guards and ask if he could be let in. And guess what, the guard let him in. The idiots. That postman could have been anyone.
I've kind of forgotten what the main purpose of me writing this was in the first place. I'm aware that, through all this moaning, I haven't even mentioned it once and I've already gone on far too long. So, I apologise yet again. You will have to bear with me. The thing with writing is that I can take all the time in the world to complete it and you would never know. Actually, all the time in the world at one given moment is it's own paradox. To get the one given moment you require, you would have to find some way of stopping time. This leading to the point that there would be no time at the one given moment when you have all the time in the world . . .
Bloody hell Nora, I've done it again. But I think I remember what the main goal of this moaning session is about. College cancellations. It's retarded. I never know if a lesson is on or off because I'm never bloody informed. They need to invest in some sort of texting system to let you know when a lesson is off or on. I mean COME ON! Some people have spent a lot of bloody money on the over priced buses (see part 2 of my intellectually moanathon) and get to college and find it was all for bloody nothing. Awesome! And by luck, it happens when I have only one lesson in a day. They are all a bunch of Wazzocks if you ask me!!
I think I will rap it up here. Look deep into your hearts and try to forgive me for my sins of rambling craziness. I do have more to tell you on these, and other, matters so do not even hesitate for a second to ask about them. Please call me on my home phone number: 01623 798723 Nah I'm only kidding, it's not my real phone number . . . OR IS IT? There is only one way to find out now isn't there . . . Also I would like to inform you that this product is none returnable and if you have any problem with the usage, space or the general gist of it then TOUGH! This knowledge has now been passed on to you. Do with it what you must, but do not try and return it. And I must emphasis no dyslextorian-humph-re-hump
Womble's Infinite Reasons For Grumpiness - Part 2 Bloody Buses
Cock! I've just missed the 8 o'clock bus. This is usually because not so long back they changed the time table. So I'm still hung over from the last one. Its implanted in my God damn brain! The new time-table is now the “better service.” Bollox! Well okay they added leather seats, and fancy new tickets, but did they ever think about what I wanted? How would I feel about the changing of the bus times? Honestly, they have no sense of loyalty. And not only have they changed the times, they are now charging an extra twenty pence for an adult return. Well I have the upper hand there. My cunning cheapskate style paid off, for once. I bought the young persons travel pass at the beginning of the academic year. Genius! It allows me to get on the bus for a child's fair. But, it's still an extra ten pence a day. I could buy a Cadbury's Freddo with that sort of money. RIDICULUS!
Anyway, it is morning. I'm out the house (see rant number 1 for more details on my dubious ordeal with the family) and ready, as I can be, for college. But of cause there is always a problem. Why the fuck did the bus service put the bus stop so bloody far away from my house? I ask the useless bastards to do one thing, take me to and from college. No luck there though. The retarded Ravenshead street designers insisted on putting hills where the roads were, and annoying long forever bends in the road that is only possible to know how they work if you have a diagonal sense of logic. And so it takes me 10 minutes to walk to the bus stop. My parents don't help either. They should have moved (as every teenager who has the lazy gene knows) next to the bus stop so all I have to do in the morning is walk down the drive and bang I'm there. But noooooooo!
So I seem to always miss the 8 o'clock bus in the morning. It means I have to wait another bloody 15 minutes at the stupid bus stop. Okay I'll give the bus company one thing, at least I don't have to wait 20 minutes anymore. Well, that is “in theory.” Actually I have to wait longer than that. As my luck goes the bus at 8am always comes 5 minutes early, I know this because I always see it go by as I work out the alleyway, and then the 8.15 turns up ten minutes late. So I actually have to wait 30 minutes, 10 more minutes than what I used to.
Now there are two types of buses that run the pronto route. (And before you ask . . . NO I'm not a bloody bus spotter, I can just tell a good bus from a bad one.) The first bus company, in my opinion the nice one, is Trent Barton. This is the 8 o'clock bus. Now you might understand why I try so hard to get this particular bus. It is the lightest, brightest, routin'ist tootin'ist bus I've ever came across. Nice comfy smooth leather seats, funky seats near the back of the bus that actually make you go backwards and in general a nice place for reading. On a bus. On the other hand, (never really understood that saying, how can I fit a bus in my hand?) is the commonly late and wrongly named Pronto. The 8.15 bus is ran by Stagecoach. And essentially that is what it is. A massive dark room, with hard and sticky elephant skin leather seats, on wheels. And as I must of used all my Irish luck on a game of poker (the word is DOOMED!!), its seems I always have to get on that bus. Also, to make things worse, they have even taken the one thing I liked about the old Stagecoach buses, the news paper rack for the metro, out. Now I have to bloody sort through them, as they are spread out all over seats, to find a half decent looking one. All the others look as though some Mansfield tramp has used them for insulation.
However, on the rare occasion I catch the glorious 8 o'clock bus I can think about all the wonders of the day ahead. Well I could do but fate stops that doesn't it. I never seem to get any peace. All I want to do is daydream and sit on my own without a care in the world when some fat smelly man sits next to me. I'm well aware that people on buses like to sit next to people more harmless than themselves. We all do it from the minute we see the bus pulling up at the bus stop to the minute we sit down. We size the other passengers up. We look them up and down and move on until you find a suitably weak looking opponent. But do they always have to sit next to me? Do the fat people of today not have the decency to walk? They could then maybe lose some weight. Oh come on, they need the exercise. Or could they at least wash themselves before they sit next to me. Or even before they get on the bloody bus. It's like their kind still haven't invented deodorant.
Another thing that pisses me off about the Pronto is that it is full of old people who don't know the meaning of the phrase “please take your ticket.” Just because your an OAP, and you get free bus fair, doesn't mean you can ignore the rules. Stop jumping the queue and hurry up, I want to sit down already. Me, on the other hand, ALWAYS takes my ticket. Well I am not about to throw away Two Pound Thirty a day now am I? That's the price of a half return if you're a bit stupid. But to think without my sacred bus pass it would cost Four-Bloody-Pound Sixty. Bunch of bastards.
Well after all that kerfuffle with tickets et cetera, I am finally moving into Nottingham. (This is a visual thing, I'm actually sat at my laptop. I suppose I could be on a bus typing on my laptop, but, as far as I know, my bedroom does not have wheels that go round and round. Shame really.) A half an hour trip with an other 10 minute walk to college when I get into Nottingham itself. The bus should take me to the college doors. After all my bus pass says from Ravenshead to High Pavement College on it. And God knows I'm paying for it. So why the hell does it stop at the Vicky Centre? But on more than one occasion it takes a lot longer than this anyway. There can only be one reason. Traffic. Who the hell invented rush hour? Why is it that everyone is so desperate to get to work for bloody 9 o'clock? It's the big businesses fault. They are too dumb to realise I'm trying to get to college, and they are not helping. Stagger work time for fucks sake. Some people start at 7, some at 8, some at 9 and some at 10. Penises!
So I finally made it to Nottingham, late as usual. Annoyed about Breakfast and now pissed off with the buses. What else has the day got in-store for me? Well after I've gone through all that trauma I find out that it was all for nothing. My bloody lessons are cancelled.
If you have any issues raised, or were offended in anyway by my rants on buses and its circumstances, then I apologise. And I now apologise for apologising as I did not truly mean the first apology. And now I apologise for using the word apology too many time. If you have any inquiries about the bollox that goes on in my head then don't hesitate to ask. Thank you for reading.
Anyway, it is morning. I'm out the house (see rant number 1 for more details on my dubious ordeal with the family) and ready, as I can be, for college. But of cause there is always a problem. Why the fuck did the bus service put the bus stop so bloody far away from my house? I ask the useless bastards to do one thing, take me to and from college. No luck there though. The retarded Ravenshead street designers insisted on putting hills where the roads were, and annoying long forever bends in the road that is only possible to know how they work if you have a diagonal sense of logic. And so it takes me 10 minutes to walk to the bus stop. My parents don't help either. They should have moved (as every teenager who has the lazy gene knows) next to the bus stop so all I have to do in the morning is walk down the drive and bang I'm there. But noooooooo!
So I seem to always miss the 8 o'clock bus in the morning. It means I have to wait another bloody 15 minutes at the stupid bus stop. Okay I'll give the bus company one thing, at least I don't have to wait 20 minutes anymore. Well, that is “in theory.” Actually I have to wait longer than that. As my luck goes the bus at 8am always comes 5 minutes early, I know this because I always see it go by as I work out the alleyway, and then the 8.15 turns up ten minutes late. So I actually have to wait 30 minutes, 10 more minutes than what I used to.
Now there are two types of buses that run the pronto route. (And before you ask . . . NO I'm not a bloody bus spotter, I can just tell a good bus from a bad one.) The first bus company, in my opinion the nice one, is Trent Barton. This is the 8 o'clock bus. Now you might understand why I try so hard to get this particular bus. It is the lightest, brightest, routin'ist tootin'ist bus I've ever came across. Nice comfy smooth leather seats, funky seats near the back of the bus that actually make you go backwards and in general a nice place for reading. On a bus. On the other hand, (never really understood that saying, how can I fit a bus in my hand?) is the commonly late and wrongly named Pronto. The 8.15 bus is ran by Stagecoach. And essentially that is what it is. A massive dark room, with hard and sticky elephant skin leather seats, on wheels. And as I must of used all my Irish luck on a game of poker (the word is DOOMED!!), its seems I always have to get on that bus. Also, to make things worse, they have even taken the one thing I liked about the old Stagecoach buses, the news paper rack for the metro, out. Now I have to bloody sort through them, as they are spread out all over seats, to find a half decent looking one. All the others look as though some Mansfield tramp has used them for insulation.
However, on the rare occasion I catch the glorious 8 o'clock bus I can think about all the wonders of the day ahead. Well I could do but fate stops that doesn't it. I never seem to get any peace. All I want to do is daydream and sit on my own without a care in the world when some fat smelly man sits next to me. I'm well aware that people on buses like to sit next to people more harmless than themselves. We all do it from the minute we see the bus pulling up at the bus stop to the minute we sit down. We size the other passengers up. We look them up and down and move on until you find a suitably weak looking opponent. But do they always have to sit next to me? Do the fat people of today not have the decency to walk? They could then maybe lose some weight. Oh come on, they need the exercise. Or could they at least wash themselves before they sit next to me. Or even before they get on the bloody bus. It's like their kind still haven't invented deodorant.
Another thing that pisses me off about the Pronto is that it is full of old people who don't know the meaning of the phrase “please take your ticket.” Just because your an OAP, and you get free bus fair, doesn't mean you can ignore the rules. Stop jumping the queue and hurry up, I want to sit down already. Me, on the other hand, ALWAYS takes my ticket. Well I am not about to throw away Two Pound Thirty a day now am I? That's the price of a half return if you're a bit stupid. But to think without my sacred bus pass it would cost Four-Bloody-Pound Sixty. Bunch of bastards.
Well after all that kerfuffle with tickets et cetera, I am finally moving into Nottingham. (This is a visual thing, I'm actually sat at my laptop. I suppose I could be on a bus typing on my laptop, but, as far as I know, my bedroom does not have wheels that go round and round. Shame really.) A half an hour trip with an other 10 minute walk to college when I get into Nottingham itself. The bus should take me to the college doors. After all my bus pass says from Ravenshead to High Pavement College on it. And God knows I'm paying for it. So why the hell does it stop at the Vicky Centre? But on more than one occasion it takes a lot longer than this anyway. There can only be one reason. Traffic. Who the hell invented rush hour? Why is it that everyone is so desperate to get to work for bloody 9 o'clock? It's the big businesses fault. They are too dumb to realise I'm trying to get to college, and they are not helping. Stagger work time for fucks sake. Some people start at 7, some at 8, some at 9 and some at 10. Penises!
So I finally made it to Nottingham, late as usual. Annoyed about Breakfast and now pissed off with the buses. What else has the day got in-store for me? Well after I've gone through all that trauma I find out that it was all for nothing. My bloody lessons are cancelled.
If you have any issues raised, or were offended in anyway by my rants on buses and its circumstances, then I apologise. And I now apologise for apologising as I did not truly mean the first apology. And now I apologise for using the word apology too many time. If you have any inquiries about the bollox that goes on in my head then don't hesitate to ask. Thank you for reading.
Womble's Infinate Reasons for Grumpiness - Part 1 Moring Doom
Every morning its the same deal. My alarm goes off with the one and only Chris Moyals from Radio 1, trying madly to wake me up. Of cause they aren't just trying to wake me up in the mornings but everyone else around the nation, I'm not that naive. Anyway, as I stated they try and fail to wake me up. Even with my radio on full blast, waking everyone on my street up at 6.30 (they must all listen to Radio 1.) It still seems to have no effect on my subconscious state whatsoever. The only proven working method is for my dad to storm into my room and physically detach me from my bed. The nerve of him. I would rather be forced to read stupid reality magazines, with the usual celebrity bollox, than be forced to get up in the morning. Actually I take that back.
Well after my usual morning wake up call it is time for breakfast. I quickly have to stumble down the stairs for about 7 am (yes it takes me about 30minutes to get out of bed and dressed, but clearly I have some talent in hat department as I usually do this asleep) to be the first to use the toaster before all the settings have been changed by my intrepid father. The consequences of appearing downstairs after my father has made a mess in the kitchen, usually involves; an empty cereal box, liquefied butter and charcoal toast that even Thomas the Tank Engine wouldn't enjoy. Sometimes it does make me wonder whether Thomas actually has toast for breakfast...
Moving on, after this daily mental ordeal, my mission is to synchronize, with my stupid of an aged sister (13), the bathroom usage times with out even giving her a second glance. Usually this is just best guess. On more than one occasion I find the door locked. This is a bad thing. It means I have to wait 45 minutes to brush my teeth and to have the daily "crap before college". What she does in there is anyone's guess, but when this increasingly annoying event happens, it is guaranteed that I will miss the 8 o'clock bus. On the brighter side though, when everything in the morning goes to plan, I can have about a half an hour rest before I have to begin to worry about catching the bus.
Recently though, my peace has been broken. If everything goes to plan and I get my relax time in my room, weird sounds emerge from the room next to mine, my sisters room. It is the most peculiar and irritating noises I've ever heard. It always seems to have an annoying beat to it that wont go away, and an uptight bitch wailing at full volume about uninteresting crap. I am, of cause, talking about the paradox of a name, Lady Ga-Ga and her ppppooooker face. This idiot has ruined two of my most favourite and dear words. Poker and face. I haven't been this disappointed since I found out that Chewbacca had accidentally killed Mark Hamill in a skiing accident. He didn't even rip his arms out for fucks sake!! (DISCLAIMER: I don't not own or in anyway are connected to the rights to slag off Star Wars. And to the Star Wars fans, don't worry, Mark Hamill killed his own career by taking on the role of Luke Skywalker in the first place. Chewbacca can not be held responsible. In fact all the actors careers were killed by those films, that is, apart from Han Solo's. It has been suspected that mass career genocide was George Lucas' original plan with Star Wars (hence the name) and it is just coincidence that it happened in space. This is still to be proven.) But what annoys me most is, rather surprisingly not just Lady Ga-Ga-I'm-A-baby-And-I-Want-Feeding-NOW. It is, and I think you shall agree, what it is blaring from. A phone. I'm sure you will all agree that this is not only shamefully poor to have this act befouled in my own home, but grave robbingly stupid as well.
What I don't get is why would she not play the "music" on her Mp3 player? It is a more than capable device to hold the crap in her head-phones so I don't have to listen to it. And, most of all, it doesn't constantly sound as though Lady Ga-Ga is drowning in the shallow end of a swimming pool. Now I'm all up for the death of the monstrosity that is, as my sister call it, a "singer," but for God sakes if you are going to drown her, Gag her first so she can't moan about it. It's for the greater good people!
So I told her to play the music on her Mp3 player, and surprisingly she listened. But as the title suggests this isn't a happy ending. What I failed to recognise about her Mp3 player (a Samsung that looks remarkably like my phone – the same with any other Samsung product . . . including fridges) has an inbuilt speaker. Yes you guessed it (or not, but it doesn't matter because I'm going to tell you anyway) a louder and more powerful sound system than her pathetic little phone. It also sounds at least 6 ft deeper in the swimming pool than her phone. I don't know what is worse. The Mp3 player sound quality, the fact that I cant rest any more or the shitty music that's keeping me from relaxing in the first place. But what I am sure about is that having all three trivial bollox bullying me into a pulp is my own version of hell. Can it get much worse? Yes, the bus time-table changed.
In case you are wondering what my actually point is, then hold on tight. I wanted you all to know the continuing struggle I have in the mornings. And now you might realise one of the many reasons why I am constantly grumpy in the mornings. I need a God damn break!!
Well after my usual morning wake up call it is time for breakfast. I quickly have to stumble down the stairs for about 7 am (yes it takes me about 30minutes to get out of bed and dressed, but clearly I have some talent in hat department as I usually do this asleep) to be the first to use the toaster before all the settings have been changed by my intrepid father. The consequences of appearing downstairs after my father has made a mess in the kitchen, usually involves; an empty cereal box, liquefied butter and charcoal toast that even Thomas the Tank Engine wouldn't enjoy. Sometimes it does make me wonder whether Thomas actually has toast for breakfast...
Moving on, after this daily mental ordeal, my mission is to synchronize, with my stupid of an aged sister (13), the bathroom usage times with out even giving her a second glance. Usually this is just best guess. On more than one occasion I find the door locked. This is a bad thing. It means I have to wait 45 minutes to brush my teeth and to have the daily "crap before college". What she does in there is anyone's guess, but when this increasingly annoying event happens, it is guaranteed that I will miss the 8 o'clock bus. On the brighter side though, when everything in the morning goes to plan, I can have about a half an hour rest before I have to begin to worry about catching the bus.
Recently though, my peace has been broken. If everything goes to plan and I get my relax time in my room, weird sounds emerge from the room next to mine, my sisters room. It is the most peculiar and irritating noises I've ever heard. It always seems to have an annoying beat to it that wont go away, and an uptight bitch wailing at full volume about uninteresting crap. I am, of cause, talking about the paradox of a name, Lady Ga-Ga and her ppppooooker face. This idiot has ruined two of my most favourite and dear words. Poker and face. I haven't been this disappointed since I found out that Chewbacca had accidentally killed Mark Hamill in a skiing accident. He didn't even rip his arms out for fucks sake!! (DISCLAIMER: I don't not own or in anyway are connected to the rights to slag off Star Wars. And to the Star Wars fans, don't worry, Mark Hamill killed his own career by taking on the role of Luke Skywalker in the first place. Chewbacca can not be held responsible. In fact all the actors careers were killed by those films, that is, apart from Han Solo's. It has been suspected that mass career genocide was George Lucas' original plan with Star Wars (hence the name) and it is just coincidence that it happened in space. This is still to be proven.) But what annoys me most is, rather surprisingly not just Lady Ga-Ga-I'm-A-baby-And-I-Wan
What I don't get is why would she not play the "music" on her Mp3 player? It is a more than capable device to hold the crap in her head-phones so I don't have to listen to it. And, most of all, it doesn't constantly sound as though Lady Ga-Ga is drowning in the shallow end of a swimming pool. Now I'm all up for the death of the monstrosity that is, as my sister call it, a "singer," but for God sakes if you are going to drown her, Gag her first so she can't moan about it. It's for the greater good people!
So I told her to play the music on her Mp3 player, and surprisingly she listened. But as the title suggests this isn't a happy ending. What I failed to recognise about her Mp3 player (a Samsung that looks remarkably like my phone – the same with any other Samsung product . . . including fridges) has an inbuilt speaker. Yes you guessed it (or not, but it doesn't matter because I'm going to tell you anyway) a louder and more powerful sound system than her pathetic little phone. It also sounds at least 6 ft deeper in the swimming pool than her phone. I don't know what is worse. The Mp3 player sound quality, the fact that I cant rest any more or the shitty music that's keeping me from relaxing in the first place. But what I am sure about is that having all three trivial bollox bullying me into a pulp is my own version of hell. Can it get much worse? Yes, the bus time-table changed.
In case you are wondering what my actually point is, then hold on tight. I wanted you all to know the continuing struggle I have in the mornings. And now you might realise one of the many reasons why I am constantly grumpy in the mornings. I need a God damn break!!
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