I've been writing these blogs in a frankly lovely little pub in Rottingdean, near Brighton. It's about 30 minutes cycling (including peaks and troughs on a bike stuck in first gear, so I look like a hamster in a wheel) from where I live. Very enjoyable though. After the promenade ends, the cliffs come in to view, which is beautiful. There not as white as the Dover ones though. More yellowy, like the ones on the French side of the Channel (or Manche, if I ever wanted to annoy people). Still pretty though. And quite high (if my prematurely aged lungs and unfit calves can be believed) at that.
Cycling over the cliffs is a great way to spend an otherwise futile day. The skies are unforgivingly blue and the horizon is endless until it blurs before you could see Brittany. Yet, due to it coming in from the south, you can barely smell the sea.
I made it to Rottingdean, a lovely little village. I was walking along the High Street, looking for an ATM machine. I walked along the entire length of it, bike in hand, just enjoying the narrow streets and old, endlessly renovated houses (a couple of them going on at that very minute) and missing the ATM machine all together. Only on the way back did I find it. I went into a tiny little pub, opened my laptop and started typing. After 3 minutes the barman said: 'Oi! Aren't you forgetting something?' which admittedly, I had. By I did enjoy it there. I started writing straight away and got a half-pint of Sussex Old Bitter (a half one mind, no need to go mad) to help me along.
I wrote nearly all of these blogs in the 2 hours I was there and only when the sun started setting did I leave. Unfortunately, there was more cloud around and we didn't have the ridiculous sunset of Wednesday, but still pretty good. Near the amusingly both sad and picturesque Brighton Marina (a new built attempt at Venice with more concrete), I saw a sign standing at the edge of the cliff which made me giggle. It said: Is Life Getting You Down? You're Not Alone!
Now that can only be one thing: that's the people of the Brighton Marina saying: right, we can't have more people flinging themselves of a cliff after seeing our summer houses. We are sick, sick to the stomach (in more ways than one) of having to scrape human remains off our nice tiled roofs every April because some people can't stand the sight of it, let's call the signmaker! I do have a very sick sense of humour, yes. Thank you, I do apologise.
Ah well, it's been a day. That's all I can say.
Bye!
P.S. Will keep this up more frequently in future.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Friday 8th October 2010: What did I do today? + Executive Bastard-ising
To use the words: 'nothing much' would be an overstatement. I knew there were a couple of things I wanted to do, such as writing these bleedin' blogs, but I just didn't. I spent the day in my own funk (not literally. That would be adhering to stereotype, and I'm too good for that (oh, are you?) sorry, retake; too proud for that (there, that wasn't difficult, now, was it?) ...no....), while a completely new shower was put in. That was the main thing that happened today. That and me, in my room, watching the entire second series of Whose Line Is It Anyway.
It's strangely addictive. It also makes me laugh satanically behind a laptop, in a not particularly sound-proof room. The days where I could watch Woody Allen in the middle of the night are over. Oh, joys of living alone! That, and strange dancing in one's pants on the carpets after 2 o' clock when one can't sleep. And lest not forget the omnipresent awareness that if I'd ever choke on some crisps while watching Woody Allen in the middle of the night, it would be at least a day until someone might find me, and that packet of crisps, strewn over the carpets like a stranded whale. At least I now know some people might hear me falling down the stairs before they'd shrug and go back to sleep (just kidding! :-D Jokey! FUNNY! Ahum).
God, I sometimes have days like this, I know. But life is short (at least when you're young. When you're older (Grandpa's Storybook Night right here, people) you become acquainted with the notion of regret and start living your life to the full (-er) but then realise you're too old so just stop. This is unfair of life, and in doing so, life is a bastard. If I could say anything of any merit in this blog concerning a day of nothing, it would be that. Life is a bastard. There, I said it. But I am saying this as a foreign exchange student living on a grant (still awaiting but never mind that) going to a university and with the access to food, a bicycle and the wondrous world of the internet. All things I don't actually deserve more than anyone in a less fortunate position. So I'm basically a bastard for saying life's a bastard. God. I can't win. That's a bastard, innit?
Bye!
It's strangely addictive. It also makes me laugh satanically behind a laptop, in a not particularly sound-proof room. The days where I could watch Woody Allen in the middle of the night are over. Oh, joys of living alone! That, and strange dancing in one's pants on the carpets after 2 o' clock when one can't sleep. And lest not forget the omnipresent awareness that if I'd ever choke on some crisps while watching Woody Allen in the middle of the night, it would be at least a day until someone might find me, and that packet of crisps, strewn over the carpets like a stranded whale. At least I now know some people might hear me falling down the stairs before they'd shrug and go back to sleep (just kidding! :-D Jokey! FUNNY! Ahum).
God, I sometimes have days like this, I know. But life is short (at least when you're young. When you're older (Grandpa's Storybook Night right here, people) you become acquainted with the notion of regret and start living your life to the full (-er) but then realise you're too old so just stop. This is unfair of life, and in doing so, life is a bastard. If I could say anything of any merit in this blog concerning a day of nothing, it would be that. Life is a bastard. There, I said it. But I am saying this as a foreign exchange student living on a grant (still awaiting but never mind that) going to a university and with the access to food, a bicycle and the wondrous world of the internet. All things I don't actually deserve more than anyone in a less fortunate position. So I'm basically a bastard for saying life's a bastard. God. I can't win. That's a bastard, innit?
Bye!
Thursday 7th October 2010: Birds and Verbal Self-Defence
I started writing this blog on the day itself (note: serious procrastination issues need to be resolved!) and I quite liked the beginning, so that's not going to waste anytime soon: There's either a lady with a high voice or a very repetitive cat saying Hello 47 times in a row just outside my window (48), as I'm sitting here (49), writing this. Pretty annoying as well (…). Don't know why. (49. It stopped).
In the afternoon, after dropping off some postcards in a letterbox (and yes, I did use my rubbishy accent with the lady in the post-office. People do think you're essentially nice but a bit thick if you have a slight foreign accent, whereas with my learnt, studied and grafted accent I wouldn't have gotten away with being the total shambles that I am in official places); I had my third seminar of the week, about Modern & Postmodern Drama.
It was very enjoyable. We were talking mainly about Ibsen's A Doll's House and the feminist implications of it. In a group of four people I was the only man, and soon the conversation turned to the oppression of women through the ages. I agreed with everything but one of us got really in to it and when speaking, she couldn't constrain the intense longing to point her finger in my direction. As everyone who knows me knows, I am the first to apologise for the serious crimes me and other men
inflicted on women (and continue to inflict) since the dawn of time. We are shits and we know it.
But after a while she caught herself and started apologising. I then (very unprofessionally) acted like I was offended (the ability of my face to convey no emotion whatsoever has been noted, but very close to that face is my: mildly indignant + exasperated-face. That was the one I was using. No good idea) because I thought that was funny. So she might still have thought that I was shocked, if I didn't go for a coffee with her afterwards, to explain. Still, a belated sorry.
Occasions like this happen possibly because I am, to all intents and purposes, foreign. So whenever I say anything offensive for a laugh (ironically, always. I'm too twee to ever really believe the horrible things I say), people go: Are you really like that? That is a bit racist of them, admittedly; but since they (non-racistly) believe that everyone is different, they might think that against all odds and impressions, I might be a bigoted dick. I'm very much anti-that. So it's my responsibility to move my jokes into very much non-bigoted areas. The thing is, a lot of people are bigots and believe horrible things (and are convinced that everything they believe is somehow noble) that when you joke about them, they can be taken at face value as well. Horrible. How can we ever defeat these dicks? Oh, I just called all bigots dicks. That makes me a dick too. Yes it does. But not as much as them.
Now, I've talked myself out of this conundrum (and, as Stewart Lee wrote in his brilliant book; 'And in a single bound I am free' which might have been a Spiderman reference. Ah well. That's another google knol, there) so where was I? Oh yeah. Coffee. Weirdly enough, there was no hot water available on all the campus. Also, kettles were out. There was absolutely no coffee or tea available. Glad to live here, glad to live here.
I finished the day by making fried rice that would last me another day. That's how I roll people. It's a good time.
Bye!
In the afternoon, after dropping off some postcards in a letterbox (and yes, I did use my rubbishy accent with the lady in the post-office. People do think you're essentially nice but a bit thick if you have a slight foreign accent, whereas with my learnt, studied and grafted accent I wouldn't have gotten away with being the total shambles that I am in official places); I had my third seminar of the week, about Modern & Postmodern Drama.
It was very enjoyable. We were talking mainly about Ibsen's A Doll's House and the feminist implications of it. In a group of four people I was the only man, and soon the conversation turned to the oppression of women through the ages. I agreed with everything but one of us got really in to it and when speaking, she couldn't constrain the intense longing to point her finger in my direction. As everyone who knows me knows, I am the first to apologise for the serious crimes me and other men
inflicted on women (and continue to inflict) since the dawn of time. We are shits and we know it.
But after a while she caught herself and started apologising. I then (very unprofessionally) acted like I was offended (the ability of my face to convey no emotion whatsoever has been noted, but very close to that face is my: mildly indignant + exasperated-face. That was the one I was using. No good idea) because I thought that was funny. So she might still have thought that I was shocked, if I didn't go for a coffee with her afterwards, to explain. Still, a belated sorry.
Occasions like this happen possibly because I am, to all intents and purposes, foreign. So whenever I say anything offensive for a laugh (ironically, always. I'm too twee to ever really believe the horrible things I say), people go: Are you really like that? That is a bit racist of them, admittedly; but since they (non-racistly) believe that everyone is different, they might think that against all odds and impressions, I might be a bigoted dick. I'm very much anti-that. So it's my responsibility to move my jokes into very much non-bigoted areas. The thing is, a lot of people are bigots and believe horrible things (and are convinced that everything they believe is somehow noble) that when you joke about them, they can be taken at face value as well. Horrible. How can we ever defeat these dicks? Oh, I just called all bigots dicks. That makes me a dick too. Yes it does. But not as much as them.
Now, I've talked myself out of this conundrum (and, as Stewart Lee wrote in his brilliant book; 'And in a single bound I am free' which might have been a Spiderman reference. Ah well. That's another google knol, there) so where was I? Oh yeah. Coffee. Weirdly enough, there was no hot water available on all the campus. Also, kettles were out. There was absolutely no coffee or tea available. Glad to live here, glad to live here.
I finished the day by making fried rice that would last me another day. That's how I roll people. It's a good time.
Bye!
Wednesday 6th October 2010: Semi-Professional Randomising
Apart from the ridiculously early start (who ever invented 9 AM?) I hugely enjoyed the second seminar as well, about making theatre. I've definitely made the right decision, coming here (at least on an academic level). The seminar ended at 11, so I had a day to kill. I did a lot of stuff I still had to do on the admin side on campus, before I decided to scour some bookshops in town and maybe buy a paper and have a coffee somewhere nice. In the end, I didn't even have a coffee. Just enjoyed the surroundings and saw some things. I thought about these, and a couple of them are written down here.
As a foreign exchange student, life can sometimes be a bit difficult. But I've got a secret weapon. If I want people to do things for me, I just use a slightly less professional form of English. It helps so much. If you don't mind feeling slightly patronised, it's a ball.
I saw a man in the street with a Sainsbury's Bag going 'ow' every fifth step. Why every fifth step? What could have hurt him so much on an odd number of steps? Why was it so painful that he had to make the facial movement of pain but not painful enough to entice him to make the appropriate pain-related noise? The only reasonable explanation I can think of is that he probably wasn't going 'ow' every fifth step, but 'f***' step, step, step, step, 'off', step, step, step, step, 'f***', (you get the general idea).
I saw this Fighting Fantasy Shop in Brighton advertising itself as: Adult Creche. Brilliant.
After this, I'd went in to Aldi. Yes, you may laugh, but one day, the Debt Fairy might come and take away your money too! I'm a student! I don't have the means to be middle-class! Now.
The first thing I saw, when I got in, was an old lady with bag, ensconced in the trolley-bit, one eye closed, asking me very politely to help her get to the busstop outside. Now, I wasn't prepared for this. I was listening to music, and I was a bit lost in my own head. She brought may straight back to earth. So I thought about this for a split second, until I obliged. But I was still a bit paranoid. The lady had caught me off-guard. Whatever could she want, apart from me helping her to the busstop? I went through my Not-Lose-Stuff ritual of Phone, Keys, Wallet, Bag (x3). I learnt that at 18, to stop losing stuff all the time, so I now check about every 3 seconds. I'm still horrible with losing stuff. Today, actually, I was frantically looking around for my keys, only realising after about 4 minutes that I had been holding the keys in my mouth. I know! It's hell to live with me. And that's me, saying that. I get so annoyed with myself!
Euhm, yeah. So I was there, frankly obsessed with getting either my wallet or my admittedly crappy bike stolen. What would that woman want from me? I only ever saw that stuff on Sesame Street, where smug animated children would lead grateful elderly ladies across animated American streets after which the old woman would bribe them with sweets and ruffle the smug child's hair after which the already smug child will feel even better about himself, bastard. But that's not the real world! The Real World isn't Sesame Street! Otherwise high streets shops would always be subject to Thunderstorms! And that's 2, 5 and 10, there you go Mrs. Harris, (Bwroom, Bwroom) HAHAHAHAHA. And Mrs. Harris would go: Why are you doing this, Mrs. Collins, why? And Mrs. Collins would go: it's company policy, Mrs. Harris. Because that would be the world we would live in. If Jim Henson ruled the world.
But no. Where was I. Oh, yeah. I was walking this lady to the bus stop and when I saw the jealous people also waiting for the bus I wondered why I was scared to do this. This was surely the most noble, most certifiably Good thing I could do today? What was I scared of? What could be the worst thing, that woman could do? Well (very factual), she could be a thief, trying to steal my crappy bike, my wallet and my foreign exchange student-card providing me with absolutely no discounts
whatsoever. She could steal my passport, my identity and deny me access to my dingy student house. (pause) She could touch me up in the middle of the street, with her old woman hands over my genitals, look at my terrified face with a horrid glint in her one good eye and, give me aids.
And I go, Yes, but why are you thinking those things? You horrible bastard? I don't know! This is my head! I don't want to think these horrible things, but I do! I'm sorry! But before I could counter that argument, the lady asked me to go a bit further along, right at the furthest away point of the bus stop. So for 4 more horrible seconds I was stuck in this limbo, this strange combination of valour, fear, and mild sexual arousal. But when she croaked: “yes, that's it. Thank you young man. Thank you, I suppose you...?” I had already gone. I had run to safety. I couldn't bear to have my hair ruffled in that way. I take care in my appearance and rather shop at Aldi than appear unruffled in there. I'm sorry. But that's just the way it is. And yes, that is the punchline to this story.
The only thing I can add is that when I went home, eventually, the sky had turned a glorious pink, red and purple. As I cycled onto the main road leading to my house, the sky was purple with such an intensity that the street around me was shaded in that colour and the pink-shaded people seemed to be walking in a sea of Cherryade. Quite beautiful. A bit like the Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds-bit in the odd (as in strange) Beatles cartoon Yellow Submarine. Beautiful in a slightly magical way. Yeah... Or maybe I just hadn't drunk enough water that day.
Bye!
As a foreign exchange student, life can sometimes be a bit difficult. But I've got a secret weapon. If I want people to do things for me, I just use a slightly less professional form of English. It helps so much. If you don't mind feeling slightly patronised, it's a ball.
I saw a man in the street with a Sainsbury's Bag going 'ow' every fifth step. Why every fifth step? What could have hurt him so much on an odd number of steps? Why was it so painful that he had to make the facial movement of pain but not painful enough to entice him to make the appropriate pain-related noise? The only reasonable explanation I can think of is that he probably wasn't going 'ow' every fifth step, but 'f***' step, step, step, step, 'off', step, step, step, step, 'f***', (you get the general idea).
I saw this Fighting Fantasy Shop in Brighton advertising itself as: Adult Creche. Brilliant.
After this, I'd went in to Aldi. Yes, you may laugh, but one day, the Debt Fairy might come and take away your money too! I'm a student! I don't have the means to be middle-class! Now.
The first thing I saw, when I got in, was an old lady with bag, ensconced in the trolley-bit, one eye closed, asking me very politely to help her get to the busstop outside. Now, I wasn't prepared for this. I was listening to music, and I was a bit lost in my own head. She brought may straight back to earth. So I thought about this for a split second, until I obliged. But I was still a bit paranoid. The lady had caught me off-guard. Whatever could she want, apart from me helping her to the busstop? I went through my Not-Lose-Stuff ritual of Phone, Keys, Wallet, Bag (x3). I learnt that at 18, to stop losing stuff all the time, so I now check about every 3 seconds. I'm still horrible with losing stuff. Today, actually, I was frantically looking around for my keys, only realising after about 4 minutes that I had been holding the keys in my mouth. I know! It's hell to live with me. And that's me, saying that. I get so annoyed with myself!
Euhm, yeah. So I was there, frankly obsessed with getting either my wallet or my admittedly crappy bike stolen. What would that woman want from me? I only ever saw that stuff on Sesame Street, where smug animated children would lead grateful elderly ladies across animated American streets after which the old woman would bribe them with sweets and ruffle the smug child's hair after which the already smug child will feel even better about himself, bastard. But that's not the real world! The Real World isn't Sesame Street! Otherwise high streets shops would always be subject to Thunderstorms! And that's 2, 5 and 10, there you go Mrs. Harris, (Bwroom, Bwroom) HAHAHAHAHA. And Mrs. Harris would go: Why are you doing this, Mrs. Collins, why? And Mrs. Collins would go: it's company policy, Mrs. Harris. Because that would be the world we would live in. If Jim Henson ruled the world.
But no. Where was I. Oh, yeah. I was walking this lady to the bus stop and when I saw the jealous people also waiting for the bus I wondered why I was scared to do this. This was surely the most noble, most certifiably Good thing I could do today? What was I scared of? What could be the worst thing, that woman could do? Well (very factual), she could be a thief, trying to steal my crappy bike, my wallet and my foreign exchange student-card providing me with absolutely no discounts
whatsoever. She could steal my passport, my identity and deny me access to my dingy student house. (pause) She could touch me up in the middle of the street, with her old woman hands over my genitals, look at my terrified face with a horrid glint in her one good eye and, give me aids.
And I go, Yes, but why are you thinking those things? You horrible bastard? I don't know! This is my head! I don't want to think these horrible things, but I do! I'm sorry! But before I could counter that argument, the lady asked me to go a bit further along, right at the furthest away point of the bus stop. So for 4 more horrible seconds I was stuck in this limbo, this strange combination of valour, fear, and mild sexual arousal. But when she croaked: “yes, that's it. Thank you young man. Thank you, I suppose you...?” I had already gone. I had run to safety. I couldn't bear to have my hair ruffled in that way. I take care in my appearance and rather shop at Aldi than appear unruffled in there. I'm sorry. But that's just the way it is. And yes, that is the punchline to this story.
The only thing I can add is that when I went home, eventually, the sky had turned a glorious pink, red and purple. As I cycled onto the main road leading to my house, the sky was purple with such an intensity that the street around me was shaded in that colour and the pink-shaded people seemed to be walking in a sea of Cherryade. Quite beautiful. A bit like the Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds-bit in the odd (as in strange) Beatles cartoon Yellow Submarine. Beautiful in a slightly magical way. Yeah... Or maybe I just hadn't drunk enough water that day.
Bye!
Tuesday 5th October 2010: TRAGEDY, PHONES AND THE SOUND OF BREAD!
Well, here we are. In front of a door, waiting to go into the Seminar on Tragedy. I had texted my mum that I'd have this class and that first on the reading list was Sophocles' Oedipus Rex. She didn't text back. But I did think it was funny to tell my mum about that. My dad's probably gone into hiding now. As well he might (joke dependent on people understanding reference to 4th C BC play. If you don't get this, you are thick. Muha. ha. ha...).
I was quite early for my first class. Some people were also standing round. Looking vaguely interested at their phones, the walls, the floor, or, in my case, the ventilation system. This probably caused a process of association in the heads of the spectators from me, a tall, chubby Dutch man to the church of Scientology via the ventilation shafts, Mission Impossible, Tom Cruise and the metaphysical concept of innate scary-ness. This can't have done much good to my eventual social standing in any group from now.
The building did provide me a with a disturbing yet weirdly unsatisfying Proustian Mnemonic through the smell of the whole thing. I knew this smell from about 1996, but couldn't lay my hands on where it came from, nor did it kickstart a seven volume novel. We can therefore safely conclude that Proust was wrong (haha! Take that Proust!)
I stopped watching the Air Vents and turned my attention to my phone to write the first paragraph of this blog into. There were more people (pretending to?) text. I love mobile phones, for making it able to endure protracted silences longer than in, say, the nineties, where I eventually always walked up to the person to ask whether they too, considered Totodile to be their favorite Pokémon. Oh yeah, I am cool (by the way I still think Totodile is the awesomest Pokémon in the world and I will bite anyone who disagrees). In 2009, at the Edinburgh Fringe, I had just done a gig, and walked home while on the phone with someone, talking all the way home. The central conceit of this charade was that, uhm, no-one was actually on the phone with me at that particular point in time. I also did the -you hang up- -no you hang up-bit just before I entered the house, waiting outside to do (imaginary) kisses for a full 30 seconds. Pathetic, I know. But if that's the worst, it can only get better, can it? Please?
In the end I genuinely enjoyed the seminar. The students were all nice people, and the lecturer was very good. So all good, basically.
I tried to get to sleep that night, knowing I had an early start, but actually spent several hours scolding myself for not getting any gigs as yet (by the time of writing, I've succeeded in getting a couple of spots. When I find out how, I'll add a gig list, if you are interested). I wrote into my phone (also a great way of getting rid of some angry words that had been bothering your inner dialogue for several hours): Stupid, that the only night I've got to go to sleep on time, I spend being angry at myself for not having done any gigs yet (I've been here for ten days. … Yeah that is a bit long...). Ah well, at least that blog's writing itself (you think?).
Just one last thing: yesterday, I was looking for a bag to use as a replacement to my battered laptop-bag. I found it in a nice little second-hand shop in town. Very happy with it. As well as some weird books and smelly cd's, I found this LP, called: THE SOUND OF BREAD.
Brilliant. It was a band called Bread. Calling their Best Of (rather than The Best Of Bread, which admittedly sounds a tiny wee bit more ridiculous than the eventual title) THE SOUND OF BREAD. What IS the Sound of Bread? Can someone enlighten me? It just made me very happy, that's all.
I was quite early for my first class. Some people were also standing round. Looking vaguely interested at their phones, the walls, the floor, or, in my case, the ventilation system. This probably caused a process of association in the heads of the spectators from me, a tall, chubby Dutch man to the church of Scientology via the ventilation shafts, Mission Impossible, Tom Cruise and the metaphysical concept of innate scary-ness. This can't have done much good to my eventual social standing in any group from now.
The building did provide me a with a disturbing yet weirdly unsatisfying Proustian Mnemonic through the smell of the whole thing. I knew this smell from about 1996, but couldn't lay my hands on where it came from, nor did it kickstart a seven volume novel. We can therefore safely conclude that Proust was wrong (haha! Take that Proust!)
I stopped watching the Air Vents and turned my attention to my phone to write the first paragraph of this blog into. There were more people (pretending to?) text. I love mobile phones, for making it able to endure protracted silences longer than in, say, the nineties, where I eventually always walked up to the person to ask whether they too, considered Totodile to be their favorite Pokémon. Oh yeah, I am cool (by the way I still think Totodile is the awesomest Pokémon in the world and I will bite anyone who disagrees). In 2009, at the Edinburgh Fringe, I had just done a gig, and walked home while on the phone with someone, talking all the way home. The central conceit of this charade was that, uhm, no-one was actually on the phone with me at that particular point in time. I also did the -you hang up- -no you hang up-bit just before I entered the house, waiting outside to do (imaginary) kisses for a full 30 seconds. Pathetic, I know. But if that's the worst, it can only get better, can it? Please?
In the end I genuinely enjoyed the seminar. The students were all nice people, and the lecturer was very good. So all good, basically.
I tried to get to sleep that night, knowing I had an early start, but actually spent several hours scolding myself for not getting any gigs as yet (by the time of writing, I've succeeded in getting a couple of spots. When I find out how, I'll add a gig list, if you are interested). I wrote into my phone (also a great way of getting rid of some angry words that had been bothering your inner dialogue for several hours): Stupid, that the only night I've got to go to sleep on time, I spend being angry at myself for not having done any gigs yet (I've been here for ten days. … Yeah that is a bit long...). Ah well, at least that blog's writing itself (you think?).
Just one last thing: yesterday, I was looking for a bag to use as a replacement to my battered laptop-bag. I found it in a nice little second-hand shop in town. Very happy with it. As well as some weird books and smelly cd's, I found this LP, called: THE SOUND OF BREAD.
Brilliant. It was a band called Bread. Calling their Best Of (rather than The Best Of Bread, which admittedly sounds a tiny wee bit more ridiculous than the eventual title) THE SOUND OF BREAD. What IS the Sound of Bread? Can someone enlighten me? It just made me very happy, that's all.
Monday, 4 October 2010
Post 8: At the Pavillion + Rain
Sorry about the slightly lame start to this blog. I haven't lived a particularly eventful life for the last week or so. But then again most of you lot don't, or you wouldn't have the time to read this blog (zing!).
Well, that's joke one. I've never been particularly good with jokes; or with keeping diaries. As you've noticed, probably.
(ENTER: HORNS PLAYING IN A WAGNER-TYPE WAY, INITIATING SOMETHING IMPORTANT)
So it's come to this; Post 8 and I'm diving head first into the realm of cliché. I know. It's not a nice place. It mostly resembles a derelict Austrian holiday camp, unused since the early seventies and with the carcasses of disappointing barbecues and abandoned family pets strewn hither and thither across the empty, algae-encrusted outdoor pool. Like I said, not a nice place.
This last week, from the inside of my flat looking out on Brighton's main bus shelter, I've seen about 70 different forms of rain. And since I still don't have my grant (grr. Erasmus. grr!) I seem to spend my days intermittently looking out of my window and randomly reading stuff on wikipedia; which is the new nerd heaven. Not helped by the fact that my first course, starting tomorrow, is a course on Tragedy. Yeah, I'm that kind of guy.
I've seen some rain alright (enter weird gravelly cowboy-based voice). I've seen drizzle, I've seen dew, I've seen showers, I've seen mist, I've seen some good old deluge and I've seen some monsoons. I've seen flurries, I've seen storms, I've seen torrents, I've seen floods, I've seen so much rain that it gets embarrassing to mention. I've seen (and this is honestly one of the synonyms on thesaurus.com) the wet stuff (that's pathetic, isn't it? It is..
But today, the weather's fine. That's a bit annoying, since I'm waiting for a man from the off-campus building to come by and check on a leak in the bathroom. But now I am here, writing this. Swings and roundabouts.
Yesterday evening, I let myself out to go to a party (YOU: Ooh! A party! Why, look at you! A party! A real one? ME: (TILTING BACK HEAD, WHILE WEIRDLY LOWERING SEVENTIES-STYLE GREEN-TINGED SUNGLASSES MAKING NO DIFFERENCE TO THE VISIBILITY OF MY EYES)Ooh yah... (TICK),(AUDIENCE EXHALES WISTFULLY)...).
Just days before, I got a ticket for the University's International Students' Welcome Reception. The doors would open at 6.30. I put on my suit (or what passes for it), in order not to feel underdressed. Then it turned out I was ridiculously overdressed; which was remarked upon by some people. I looked like a trainee estate agent missing the point at a casual-dress conference for Earth-based casually dressed people in an over-extended (and -dressed) metaphor. Or just the eternally drunk village poet (I love those people).
It was at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. There they had free food and drink (on coupons. I had two free Guinness. V nice) and a three-piece jazz band. A twenty-year old undergraduate claimed she felt really grown-up now, as she took another swig of her Raspberry Breezer.
A French girl was mortified at the bread that was used for sandwiches, saying: No, I can't possibly eat that. It's looks too professional. I said, what do you mean? She told me she missed French baker's bread which was usually a bit lumpy and weirdly shaped. Ah well. Embarrassingly, when I chatted with her about something French (in English) I responded to some questions with: Ah, ouais. Leading her to think that my French was much better than it actually is.
The party turned out to be of less interest than I had anticipated. After about two hours, I left. I did meet the only other person on exchange from UvA, though. She had been there for a month before I got here. She said she really enjoyed her time there so far, but had been back to A'dam. Apparently, it's still there. So they can run the country without me. Good.
So there.
FINAL THOUGHT: Even though the truth is malleable it can still be boring.
Until next time, bye!
Well, that's joke one. I've never been particularly good with jokes; or with keeping diaries. As you've noticed, probably.
(ENTER: HORNS PLAYING IN A WAGNER-TYPE WAY, INITIATING SOMETHING IMPORTANT)
So it's come to this; Post 8 and I'm diving head first into the realm of cliché. I know. It's not a nice place. It mostly resembles a derelict Austrian holiday camp, unused since the early seventies and with the carcasses of disappointing barbecues and abandoned family pets strewn hither and thither across the empty, algae-encrusted outdoor pool. Like I said, not a nice place.
This last week, from the inside of my flat looking out on Brighton's main bus shelter, I've seen about 70 different forms of rain. And since I still don't have my grant (grr. Erasmus. grr!) I seem to spend my days intermittently looking out of my window and randomly reading stuff on wikipedia; which is the new nerd heaven. Not helped by the fact that my first course, starting tomorrow, is a course on Tragedy. Yeah, I'm that kind of guy.
I've seen some rain alright (enter weird gravelly cowboy-based voice). I've seen drizzle, I've seen dew, I've seen showers, I've seen mist, I've seen some good old deluge and I've seen some monsoons. I've seen flurries, I've seen storms, I've seen torrents, I've seen floods, I've seen so much rain that it gets embarrassing to mention. I've seen (and this is honestly one of the synonyms on thesaurus.com) the wet stuff (that's pathetic, isn't it? It is..
But today, the weather's fine. That's a bit annoying, since I'm waiting for a man from the off-campus building to come by and check on a leak in the bathroom. But now I am here, writing this. Swings and roundabouts.
Yesterday evening, I let myself out to go to a party (YOU: Ooh! A party! Why, look at you! A party! A real one? ME: (TILTING BACK HEAD, WHILE WEIRDLY LOWERING SEVENTIES-STYLE GREEN-TINGED SUNGLASSES MAKING NO DIFFERENCE TO THE VISIBILITY OF MY EYES)Ooh yah... (TICK),(AUDIENCE EXHALES WISTFULLY)...).
Just days before, I got a ticket for the University's International Students' Welcome Reception. The doors would open at 6.30. I put on my suit (or what passes for it), in order not to feel underdressed. Then it turned out I was ridiculously overdressed; which was remarked upon by some people. I looked like a trainee estate agent missing the point at a casual-dress conference for Earth-based casually dressed people in an over-extended (and -dressed) metaphor. Or just the eternally drunk village poet (I love those people).
It was at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. There they had free food and drink (on coupons. I had two free Guinness. V nice) and a three-piece jazz band. A twenty-year old undergraduate claimed she felt really grown-up now, as she took another swig of her Raspberry Breezer.
A French girl was mortified at the bread that was used for sandwiches, saying: No, I can't possibly eat that. It's looks too professional. I said, what do you mean? She told me she missed French baker's bread which was usually a bit lumpy and weirdly shaped. Ah well. Embarrassingly, when I chatted with her about something French (in English) I responded to some questions with: Ah, ouais. Leading her to think that my French was much better than it actually is.
The party turned out to be of less interest than I had anticipated. After about two hours, I left. I did meet the only other person on exchange from UvA, though. She had been there for a month before I got here. She said she really enjoyed her time there so far, but had been back to A'dam. Apparently, it's still there. So they can run the country without me. Good.
So there.
FINAL THOUGHT: Even though the truth is malleable it can still be boring.
Until next time, bye!
Friday, 1 October 2010
POST 7: Brighton. Part one!
The First Days Abroad!!!!
Yeah? Finally it's here then. An account of those first days. Sorry about it not being there earlier.
So this is it, isn't it? Alone in a small room (call it cell, if you will), rather than the place I used to live in for three years and a month, in a foreign country. I've been up since seven, reading, and generally passing time. Much in the same way as I did in Holland, basically. Not having the internet brings you back to what life might have been like in the early nineties. Which is slightly more tedious. Not having television either brings you back to life in pre-1917 St. Petersburg, angry, baying for blood and revolution.
Apart from that, I can't really do anything now. It's Thursday, and I've promised I'd wait for the Broadband guy to turn up (which he will definitely do today, guarantee; apparently), and during that time, do some writing (as I'm doing right now) and some reading (been doing that quite a lot too).
At the moment I am in the Grey Room; the communal lounge area in our rented accommodation. It is very grey. Two grey couches on grey carpets with grey-coloured walls. To my left, the sun's coming over the houses across the street, being impressive, shining in from the window.
I got here on Saturday, quite straight-forward really. There were only two weird bits to the pre-flight time wasting. On Schiphol Airport I was waiting to go to the gate. As I walked through the scanner there was a weird beep, and while saying the word Random, I was frisked lackadaisically. Apparently I wasn't carrying anything metallic, I just looked like I hadn't been touched by other people for a while. I wouldn't know what I had done if he had gone all the way with the frisking. I did do a -I'm quite surprised you're frisking me-face, though.
I only got a bit on Gatwick airport, so I had ask the airport security where I could find people who would know what to do with me (as in: where to go). As it happened, I had to go find some kind of train-thing which would take me to the other half of the airport; where the main Arrivals Hall was supposed to be. It was, and I soon found a girl in a shirt with the name of my temporary Uni on it (there were some others with similar, if crucially slightly different shirts, like the university of Surrey, which I'm sure has its merits). In a packed train, with a smattering of exchange people blocking up the aisle with suitcases bigger than the average farm animal in Inner Mongolia (that's a Yak, people...), I thought about bed. As in sleeping. I was quite tired.
A young woman was sitting near the window, apparently oblivious to the amount of luggage draped around her, forming a clothes- and books-based wall around her. If the train would inadvertently crash, this would spell trouble for her, 'cause she would be buried beneath our baggage. Or she was training to be a frog and merely testing her ability to jump away from tricky situations. Yeah, it must be that.
At Brighton station I spent some time aimlessly wandering around, before finding the blue-jumpered person who pointed me to where I had to go. There was a nice man with a van who drove me to the place where I had to get my keys. They also sold bedding. This was nice, but also a bit aggressive on foreign students who, like me, possibly didn't bring a duvet with them on a long-haul flight. It was all right in the end.
The house still looked the same as it did on google maps; which isn't surprising actually, since I hadn't been informed of a fire or an earthquake. I don't think the South Coast is that vulnerable to earthquakes is it? (If it is, please let me know).
The house is nice, and so are my flatmates. The first thing we did was go mad in (nondescript supermarket) and getting enough stuff to live through the first week. But, not being able to get the cooker to work we had to go to the petrol station for M&S food. Which was nice. It's like paying 3,95 for a bit of much-missed middle-classness. After which, we did some more moaning (in the annoyed, Russian sense; not sexually) about the apparent crapulousness of the house we found ourselves in and went to bed (early. I was asleep at 21.30. UK time).
Our annoyance was based on the shared impression of things in our house not being as they were advertised (which they were, in the end) and the house-people making us live in a useless house until term actually begins. Until then, basically, we're on our own. Which was not the case.
Yet I still don't have my Erasmus grant at the moment of writing (come on!), so it's a bit hard to open an account and loading in the money for the next month's worth rent. Neither can I now get a part-time job. I can see Kafka, looking down as he does at me from his place on my bookshelf, mocking me. Well, look at you all high and mighty. You were only €3,95, a cheapo Wordsworth Student edition paperback and to top that all off; you didn't even finish it. Lah-di-dah!).
Sunday:
Spent reading and watching the entire first series of The League Of Gentlemen.
Later, I was trying to sleep (as you should. Are you reading this at night? Go to bed! Now! No, not a word! Bed!) but couldn't; and wrote this in my phone: I was actually spending most of the time whispering the words: duck off (sic) at the wall. The neighbours were having a party.
At about 2, I started thinking angry, evil thoughts. Why can't people who love parties leave Uni and be put to work in call centres where they belong?
Then I dreamt of them having to go on a training day in a huge ballroom type place. For their call centre jobs. Asked to lay their coat on a seat at the last table near the window. But the tables multiply, the building grows bigger and bigger too until they get crushed under the immense gravitational forces of a mega planet. Muhaha.
By the time I had written this, the music had stopped.
Day Two...
So what I basically mean is, be careful with us weirdos. Because this behaviour breeds cartoon villainy. Into phones.
Monday:
Monday was the day for introductory talks and things being taken care of on a basic, administrative level. Therefore the day was ridiculously boring. But I did get the chance to be in a bus in Brighton, to the campus. Ah well.
Tuesday:
I bought a bike from a man called Ian in central Brighton. It's a great bike and even though it gives me pride, it also confronts me with my innate and annoying Dutchness. I can't escape it!
I then got to campus for some much-needed admin and introductory speaking. This one was just for foreign students and
At night, we had a talk with our residential person. She turned out to be a very nice person, but couldn't fix the shower.
We then had a four-person house inspection of every bit we hadn't yet seen. Such as the outside bit.
The garden is filled with spider webs. Like a sea of string. I felt very much like I was in a weird Czechoslovakian Modern Dance-Production from 1985, signifying something or other. I don't know.
There is an immensely terrifying shed in the back of the garden. Can't open it, padlocked. Probably filled with six or seven giraffe carcasses.
Wednesday:
I fixed the shower; by cycling to King's Road. It was raining, and I wore my rain-clothes, making me sweaty, but I did see the Pavilion from one side of a fence.
I finished my application by queuing for an hour, in a place. I have never queued this much before. After about ten minutes (and 80 centimetres) there was a ridiculously loud noise. Before me stood a Chinese girl and she was scared that it might be an earthquake (again, tell me about the possibility of this happening here). I told her that I, being taller than her, would bear the brunt of the building falling on our heads, giving her time to escape. There actually was building work going on, loudly. I watched Dead Set, Charlie Brooker's zombies-in-the-big-brother-house-based satire. It was very good and highly unpleasant (I hate zombie-films) at the same time.
Thursday:
I spent today writing this! Who-hoo! If you're reading this, I was able to put this blog online and I possibly offered a cup of tea to the cable-person. Hope you are doing fine. And 1500 words in one blog can't be bad, can it? Bye!
Friday:
At last! Some internet! Who-hoo!
Yeah? Finally it's here then. An account of those first days. Sorry about it not being there earlier.
So this is it, isn't it? Alone in a small room (call it cell, if you will), rather than the place I used to live in for three years and a month, in a foreign country. I've been up since seven, reading, and generally passing time. Much in the same way as I did in Holland, basically. Not having the internet brings you back to what life might have been like in the early nineties. Which is slightly more tedious. Not having television either brings you back to life in pre-1917 St. Petersburg, angry, baying for blood and revolution.
Apart from that, I can't really do anything now. It's Thursday, and I've promised I'd wait for the Broadband guy to turn up (which he will definitely do today, guarantee; apparently), and during that time, do some writing (as I'm doing right now) and some reading (been doing that quite a lot too).
At the moment I am in the Grey Room; the communal lounge area in our rented accommodation. It is very grey. Two grey couches on grey carpets with grey-coloured walls. To my left, the sun's coming over the houses across the street, being impressive, shining in from the window.
I got here on Saturday, quite straight-forward really. There were only two weird bits to the pre-flight time wasting. On Schiphol Airport I was waiting to go to the gate. As I walked through the scanner there was a weird beep, and while saying the word Random, I was frisked lackadaisically. Apparently I wasn't carrying anything metallic, I just looked like I hadn't been touched by other people for a while. I wouldn't know what I had done if he had gone all the way with the frisking. I did do a -I'm quite surprised you're frisking me-face, though.
I only got a bit on Gatwick airport, so I had ask the airport security where I could find people who would know what to do with me (as in: where to go). As it happened, I had to go find some kind of train-thing which would take me to the other half of the airport; where the main Arrivals Hall was supposed to be. It was, and I soon found a girl in a shirt with the name of my temporary Uni on it (there were some others with similar, if crucially slightly different shirts, like the university of Surrey, which I'm sure has its merits). In a packed train, with a smattering of exchange people blocking up the aisle with suitcases bigger than the average farm animal in Inner Mongolia (that's a Yak, people...), I thought about bed. As in sleeping. I was quite tired.
A young woman was sitting near the window, apparently oblivious to the amount of luggage draped around her, forming a clothes- and books-based wall around her. If the train would inadvertently crash, this would spell trouble for her, 'cause she would be buried beneath our baggage. Or she was training to be a frog and merely testing her ability to jump away from tricky situations. Yeah, it must be that.
At Brighton station I spent some time aimlessly wandering around, before finding the blue-jumpered person who pointed me to where I had to go. There was a nice man with a van who drove me to the place where I had to get my keys. They also sold bedding. This was nice, but also a bit aggressive on foreign students who, like me, possibly didn't bring a duvet with them on a long-haul flight. It was all right in the end.
The house still looked the same as it did on google maps; which isn't surprising actually, since I hadn't been informed of a fire or an earthquake. I don't think the South Coast is that vulnerable to earthquakes is it? (If it is, please let me know).
The house is nice, and so are my flatmates. The first thing we did was go mad in (nondescript supermarket) and getting enough stuff to live through the first week. But, not being able to get the cooker to work we had to go to the petrol station for M&S food. Which was nice. It's like paying 3,95 for a bit of much-missed middle-classness. After which, we did some more moaning (in the annoyed, Russian sense; not sexually) about the apparent crapulousness of the house we found ourselves in and went to bed (early. I was asleep at 21.30. UK time).
Our annoyance was based on the shared impression of things in our house not being as they were advertised (which they were, in the end) and the house-people making us live in a useless house until term actually begins. Until then, basically, we're on our own. Which was not the case.
Yet I still don't have my Erasmus grant at the moment of writing (come on!), so it's a bit hard to open an account and loading in the money for the next month's worth rent. Neither can I now get a part-time job. I can see Kafka, looking down as he does at me from his place on my bookshelf, mocking me. Well, look at you all high and mighty. You were only €3,95, a cheapo Wordsworth Student edition paperback and to top that all off; you didn't even finish it. Lah-di-dah!).
Sunday:
Spent reading and watching the entire first series of The League Of Gentlemen.
Later, I was trying to sleep (as you should. Are you reading this at night? Go to bed! Now! No, not a word! Bed!) but couldn't; and wrote this in my phone: I was actually spending most of the time whispering the words: duck off (sic) at the wall. The neighbours were having a party.
At about 2, I started thinking angry, evil thoughts. Why can't people who love parties leave Uni and be put to work in call centres where they belong?
Then I dreamt of them having to go on a training day in a huge ballroom type place. For their call centre jobs. Asked to lay their coat on a seat at the last table near the window. But the tables multiply, the building grows bigger and bigger too until they get crushed under the immense gravitational forces of a mega planet. Muhaha.
By the time I had written this, the music had stopped.
Day Two...
So what I basically mean is, be careful with us weirdos. Because this behaviour breeds cartoon villainy. Into phones.
Monday:
Monday was the day for introductory talks and things being taken care of on a basic, administrative level. Therefore the day was ridiculously boring. But I did get the chance to be in a bus in Brighton, to the campus. Ah well.
Tuesday:
I bought a bike from a man called Ian in central Brighton. It's a great bike and even though it gives me pride, it also confronts me with my innate and annoying Dutchness. I can't escape it!
I then got to campus for some much-needed admin and introductory speaking. This one was just for foreign students and
At night, we had a talk with our residential person. She turned out to be a very nice person, but couldn't fix the shower.
We then had a four-person house inspection of every bit we hadn't yet seen. Such as the outside bit.
The garden is filled with spider webs. Like a sea of string. I felt very much like I was in a weird Czechoslovakian Modern Dance-Production from 1985, signifying something or other. I don't know.
There is an immensely terrifying shed in the back of the garden. Can't open it, padlocked. Probably filled with six or seven giraffe carcasses.
Wednesday:
I fixed the shower; by cycling to King's Road. It was raining, and I wore my rain-clothes, making me sweaty, but I did see the Pavilion from one side of a fence.
I finished my application by queuing for an hour, in a place. I have never queued this much before. After about ten minutes (and 80 centimetres) there was a ridiculously loud noise. Before me stood a Chinese girl and she was scared that it might be an earthquake (again, tell me about the possibility of this happening here). I told her that I, being taller than her, would bear the brunt of the building falling on our heads, giving her time to escape. There actually was building work going on, loudly. I watched Dead Set, Charlie Brooker's zombies-in-the-big-brother-house-based satire. It was very good and highly unpleasant (I hate zombie-films) at the same time.
Thursday:
I spent today writing this! Who-hoo! If you're reading this, I was able to put this blog online and I possibly offered a cup of tea to the cable-person. Hope you are doing fine. And 1500 words in one blog can't be bad, can it? Bye!
Friday:
At last! Some internet! Who-hoo!
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