I even put a video in this one. Like a frickin’ WIZARD.

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

In my last blog post I said that I was going to go hitchhiking for charity with my friends Conor and Yasha, and since then I’ve been hitchhiking for charity with my friends Conor and Yasha, which is a pretty lucky coincidence I guess. We went with a Hitchhiker’s Guide theme, and at about 9pm on the day before we did it we decided that we should probably think about sorting out costumes or something. Conor and Yasha said that they’d picked up a cardboard box from a construction site that we could maybe make into a robot costume if I wanted to go as Marvin. I was sort of confused about why neither of those two wanted to dress up in the awesome robot costume that we were about to build, but I said yes anyway. I was pretty excited.

GONNA MAKE A ROBOT COSTUME! LIKE A BOSS!

IT IS GOING TO BE SO AWESOME!

FUCKIN' LOVE ROBOTS!

:D:D:D:D

Oh.

The main issue with my Marvin costume was that it wasn’t going to fit in a car. I mean, there were a lot of issues with my Marvin costume. But the not fitting in a car thing was definitely the main one, so I tried to make a smaller robot torso. I also made some robot arms out of foil and paper. It was beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful in my life, apart from maybe the team picture that I made.

Unfortunately, I’d paid so much attention to the aesthetic design of my costume that I’d totally neglected practical details like the ability to withstand wind or rain or the cruel laughter of passers-by, and it fell apart before we’d even left Oxford. We tried to fix it on the coach to our AS YET UNKNOWN DESTINATION 100 MILES AWAY, which turned out to be POOLE, and it stayed together for roughly 30 seconds after we’d arrived.

In this picture Yasha is holding my foil-face together and I am telling Pac-Man that his costume is shit.

Marvin is currently at a recycling plant somewhere in Poole. I like Poole. Here is a nice picture that we took in Poole:

Yay! Poole!

We realised quite quickly that it was going to be really difficult for us to get a ride because before we’d dumped our robot costume we looked like a band of homeless children, and now we looked like a band of homeless children that didn’t even have a robot costume. We found a petrol station and decided to stand outside it to increase our chance of getting picked up because you hardly ever see homeless children without robot costumes standing outside petrol stations, and also because there would probably be some cars stopping there. We got a lot of apologetic looks and “good luck!”s as people drove straight past us, and then after about 15 minutes a car stopped and offered us our first lift! Well, the car didn’t offer. The driver offered. But the car didn’t object.

The driver’s name was Keith, and he told us that he had lived in Poole for all of his 54 years. From the minute we got into the car he told us a relentless stream of jokes. He said that he was on his way to the pub. I liked Keith.

Keith told us a joke about nuns bumming.

Keith is great!

We love Keith.

Then Keith asked if it was okay if he took us on a “5 or 10 minute detour” because he wanted “to show [us] something” and I sort of accidentally said yes.

UH-OH.

KEITH JUST TOLD US A JOKE ABOUT NUNS BUMMING! WHAT IF HE WANTS US ALL TO BUM? I’VE JUST TOLD HIM THAT IT’S OKAY FOR US ALL TO BUM!

It was okay though, because we’d remembered to send the event organisers our location, car model and registration number when we got in the vehicle. Team LOST would save us!

We hadn’t remembered to send the event organisers our location, car model and registration number when we got in the vehicle. Rookie error.

ROOKIE ERROR THAT COULD END IN BUMMING.

Luckily, Keith didn’t make us bum. He took us to an amazing viewpoint that overlooked all of Poole, and pointed out Sandbanks and Corfe Castle in the distance. He also asked whether we wanted to get some tea or coffee from a snack bar there but we declined because Conor still had his “STRANGER DANGER” face on. I think Keith noticed, because as we were pulling out he said, “I bet you were worried that I was taking you to star in a grubby porn movie or something for a minute there,” and I said that we’d actually expected that to happen and were a bit disappointed that it didn’t, and we all laughed, and lo, there was no bumming.

Mostly Homeless.

Keith dropped us off on the A348, about 15 minutes away from where we’d started, and as we got out of the car he asked whether we would adopt him if we won the lottery. I really liked Keith and decided that he wouldn’t take up much space, and that if I won the lottery I could just buy a really big shed or something to keep him in, so I said yes, but thinking about it now it probably won’t happen because I forgot to get his contact details. So if you know a guy called Keith that drives a car and lives somewhere in the south of England, let us know because that’s probably him.

We were still on that same stretch of road 2 hours after I’d agreed to adopt Keith, and during those 2 hours quite a lot of inexplicably angry people had shouted racial abuse at us, or told us to “get a fucking job” as they drove past. Someone pulled up with 2 spare seats in their car and said they could take us if I agreed to go in the boot, and they seemed really hurt and confused when we said no, but that was all we got. For 2 hours. There is no way that we could have gotten any fewer lift offers if we’d been wearing hockey masks, carrying blood-soaked chainsaws and naked from the waist-down.

And then a man called Graham picked us up in a pink limo bus with disco lights.

YASHA LOVES PINK LIMO BUSES WITH DISCO LIGHTS!

Even though we were in there for about 20 minutes, it’s really difficult to describe what it was like being inside a pink limo bus with disco lights. Here is a video that I found on YouTube of the pink limo bus with disco lights. IT IS ENTIRELY REPRESENTATIVE OF OUR EXPERIENCE IN THE PINK LIMO BUS WITH DISCO LIGHTS!

Graham dropped us off just outside of Ringwood, and we took his card because DCS Limos, based in Bournemouth and Poole, can guarantee that you will arrive at your destination in the ultimate of style and luxury! From there, we managed to get rides pretty easily, probably because after our ride in the pink limo bus with disco lights we were looking really smug, and smug homeless children without robot costumes are adorable! We got picked up by a couple driving to Reading, one of whom asked whether we’d gone with a Hitchhiker’s Guide theme (FUCKING YES, IN YOUR FACE PAC-MAN!) and said that her name was Lintilla, which was also the name of a character in the Hitchhiker’s Guide radio series, and that she had a book signed by Douglas Adams. Shamefully, I can’t remember the name of the guy that was driving. I can’t actually remember much beyond the pink limo bus with disco lights. Mostly because I was doing a 100 mile hitchhike on 45 minutes sleep and I started to crash. Also because my mind was consumed by the pink limo bus with disco lights. I do remember that we drove through the New Forest, which was beautiful, but that in my sleep-deprived state I got it mixed up with the National Forest and was really confused because I live in the National Forest and had no idea that my house was so close to Poole.

By the time we were dropped off in Reading it was dark, a bit rainy and really cold, and I was starting to think that the decision to not wear a coat in order to accommodate for my awesome robot costume was misjudged. One passer-by saw me shivering and offered us bus fare to get back to Oxford, and when I told her we were doing a charity hitchhike and weren’t allowed to pay for any transport she sponsored us for £10, which was very generous of her. As we were talking to her, we were offered a lift by a man on his way home from Sandhurst that was wearing cream trousers and a blazer and a bow tie, and we unquestioningly said yes because he was a man that was wearing cream trousers and a blazer and a bow tie. He took as far as Wallingford, where we got a lift from a young woman called Izzy who was exhaustingly enthusiastic and chatty and lovely, and whose front passenger seat was broken so every time she stopped I nearly went through her windscreen. I’m not sure where she dropped us off – somewhere near the Dorchester I think. Somewhere really close to Oxford. Flagging down a final lift seemed to take forever, probably because we knew how close we were, and also because by this stage even standing in the cold and the rain I was struggling to stay awake. When a car did eventually stop ahead of us, Conor and Yasha made me run to it with them, which was pretty inconsiderate because they both know that I’m a former cripple and also really really lazy.

Our last lift was with a guy that was in our year, but at Oxford Brookes, and he was nice enough to drive further than he’d planned on going so that we’d have a mile or so less to walk to get back to our student union and finish, which we did at about 8.30pm, 7 hours after we’d arrived in Poole. I don’t remember the half hour walk back to college afterwards, but I do remember waking up on my bed at about 10am on Sunday, fully clothed and with my light still on. I’ve had insomnia for the past 2 years, but if I’d known that all it took to get a decent night’s sleep was a 100 mile charity hitchhike and a ride on a pink limo bus with disco lights I’d probably have done it sooner.

For me, the hardest thing about what we did wasn’t the cold, or the rain, or our deeply upsetting separation from Marvin soon after we arrived in Poole. It was the transient nature of all of the interactions that we had. When we got out of Keith’s car, the first that we’d had a lift in, I turned to the guys and said, “we’ll never meet him again.” I almost instinctively try to make friends with everyone that I meet (much to their annoyance and detriment), so it was weird – difficult, even – to think that this relationship that we’d just initiated with a bloke that was kind enough to let us into his car, tell us jokes and offer to buy us tea was cut dead as soon as we got back onto the roadside. I don’t think that Conor or Yasha were anywhere near as affected by it as I was. They were probably more concerned about, like, not getting kidnapped or something. Boys are weird.

We’re still taking sponsorship (it didn’t close on March 10th like we’d initially thought), if you fancy donating a couple of quid. Thanks so much if you’ve donated already. We’ve raised £510, which I think is properly ace. It’ll make a massive difference to the charities that we’re supporting, and that I outlined in my previous, far less lengthy blog post.

Christ, It’s 6.51am. I should probably go and get my 45 minutes of sleep.

http://www.justgiving.com/Conor-Newman

I put pictures in this one. Shit just got real.

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

HEY YOU GUYS!

I’m doing a thing. It’s on Saturday. I’m being sponsored for doing a thing on Saturday. “What thing are you being sponsored to do on Saturday?” I hear you ask. “It’s really rude to interrupt me with questions when I haven’t even finished writing,” you hear me answer, which is awkward, because you weren’t supposed to hear that. I don’t really know how that happened. We’re not even in the same room.

Hitchhiking. I’m hitchhiking, and I’m hitchhiking with my friends Conor and Yasha because they’re quite big and male and so will reduce the risk of me getting kidnapped, and also because I guess their personalities are tolerable, a little bit, maybe. But mostly just the first thing. We’re taking part in Oxford LOST, where a load of us are gonna get shoved into a coach, driven to an unknown location 100 miles away and then forced to find our way back without spending any money. By hitchhiking. Yasha showed me this:

SEA. WALES. IPSWICH.

There’s a pretty good chance that we could end up in the sea. There’s a smaller, but more frightening, chance that we could end up in Ipswich. You should sponsor us so that if we get kidnapped/drown/get dropped off in Ipswich, you’ll feel less guilty!

Our team is called Mostly Harmless because we are gigantanerds, and the money that we raise goes to charity. Initially, we thought that all of the money was going to Shelter, but it’s actually being split between 4 charities: Shelter, Helen & Douglas House, Pathway Workshop and Emerge Global. I’ve supported Shelter and Helen & Douglas House for a while now; Shelter does incredible work to provide support for the homeless and those in need of adequate housing or in risk of losing their homes, and Helen and Douglas House is a charity with two hospice houses in Oxford that provides care for children and young people with life-shortening conditions, as well as support for their families. Pathway Workshop and Emerge Global are two charities that I’ve only recently become aware of, and they’re amazing. Pathway Workshop basically provides training and then paid employment for adults that have disabilities, and Emerge Global helps young Sri Lankan women who have survived abuse to develop their confidence and self-sufficiency through jewellery design. I’ve linked to all of their websites so you can read more about them or find out how to get involved if you want to. Which you do. Sure you do.

We have until the end of term (March 10th) to get sponsorship, and so far we’ve raised £347, which I think is ridiculous – when Conor, Yasha and I first decided that we wanted to do this about 3 weeks ago, we weren’t even sure that we’d be able to raise the minimum £70 sponsorship each. We hit our first target of £210 within a week and almost all of that came through online donations. I’ve never done anything like this before, so I’m pretty stoked that you guys have been so generous. If you have sponsored us, then thanks so much. If you haven’t, do! Or, y’know, don’t. It’s okay. But even a couple of quid will make a difference, so if you can donate anything then that would be ace. Also, I made the team picture that’s on our JustGiving page, so if charity isn’t your thing and you don’t want to sponsor us, commission me to design professional graphics for your website!

I'm a fucking artist.

So, that’s how I’m spending my Saturday. I hope I’m only spending my Saturday doing that. We might never come back. We’ve never hitchhiked before, so I have no idea what our hitchhiking skills are like. Undeveloped, I guess. Last year one team raised £1500 and managed to get a lift in a light aircraft. I’ll be honest, we probably won’t be able to do either of these things. But I’m pretty excited. It should be fun. I hope it doesn’t rain. I bet it’ll rain. Everyone should double their sponsorship if it rains.

Did I give you guys the link?

I can’t remember whether I gave you guys the link or not.

I should probably give you guys the link.

Here it is:

http://www.justgiving.com/Conor-Newman

BYE! x

You probably don’t want to read this.

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

Hello! I wrote this for my college newsletter. Like everything that I create, it’s pretty terrible, but it was accidentally maimed by the editor during formatting so I’m posting it up here so that my friends who read it in print can see it in its full horror. My funnier, smarter friend Conor wrote a much better piece for it. You should read his blog.

Valentine’s Day, which was first conceived in 1967 as a national holiday celebrating the work of Irish singer Val Doonican according to this Wikipedia page that I just edited, can be pretty hard. For single people, it can act as a constant, glaring reminder of how sad, miserable and lonely their lives are. For people that aren’t single, it can act as a constant, glaring reminder of how sad, miserable and long their lives will be if the relationship works out and they have to go through the whole thing every year until they die. In an effort to make things easier, I’ve written some tips that I think will improve February 14th for everyone!

1. No more roses. Roses are covered in tiny dangerous knives! Nothing says “I have not thoroughly considered the potential ramifications of my gift” like a rose. If you’re into the whole plant thing, why not give your loved one a potato? Everyone loves potatoes, and if your valentine has the misery of their single friends on their conscience then they can donate it to one of them because potatoes are perfect for yet another lonely meal for one!

 

1. Either your valentine is too old for teddy bears clutching pink hearts that say “Be mine”, or you’re doing something illegal. I recommend taxidermy as an alternative. Not only will this demonstrate your commendable maturity, but this way, no matter how cold and devoid of feeling the eyes of your valentine might be whilst you’re trying to make conversation over dinner, they will always be warmer and more loving than those of the dead badger sitting on the mantelpiece beside you.

 

1. Sometimes, things go wrong, and you realise that it is important that your valentine knows about these things, but you don’t want to upset them on such a special day. So tell them in a poem! Who said that honesty and romance were mutually exclusive? Nobody! That question was rhetorical! Here is an example:
   Roses are red,
   Violets are blue,
   I slept with your sister.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

What lies at the bottom of the ocean and twitches? A NERVOUS WRECK!!!

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

So how was it, then? You know. That thing. That thing where we all celebrated the birth of a fat beardy guy in a red suit. Christmas. Mine was nice. I probably ate too much. I definitely drank too much. What did you get? I got drunk and novelty socks. Also books. Lots and lots of books. I think that my family are starting to begrudgingly accept that I’m a massive nerd. I didn’t really own books before. Now I definitely own books. Many, many books. What do you call a group of books? A murder or something isn’t it? That’s usually the answer. A murder. I got a murder of books. Maybe even a massacre. So many goddamn books. Goddamn love books though, damn it. Damn. God damn.

Here are some jokes:

Who’s the most famous married woman in the USA?
Mrs. Sippii!

Why don’t ducks tell jokes while they’re flying?
Because they would quack up!

How do snails keep their shells shiny?
They use snail varnish!

HAHAHA.

I didn’t write those. They were in our Christmas crackers. They’re hilarious because of the exclamation marks that they put on the end of the punchlines. Look at how hilarious this sentence is! And this one! Not this one though. This one’s Australian AND hilarious?!

Here are a few of my old jokes that will tragically never make it into any Christmas crackers because they lack enthusiastic punctuation, and also do not in any way follow the format of Christmas cracker jokes:

I bought my infinite number of monkeys some typewriters for Christmas. They mostly just pulled the keys off and shat on them.

The tension on this bus is so thick I could cut it with the large, blood-soaked axe that I have in my hand.

Snow is like a newborn baby: wondrous and beautiful at first, but then the novelty wears off and you just want to maim it with a shovel and throw salt at it.

I imagine that you will have already read those on twitter because I imagine that you read everything that I post on twitter. I imagine that whilst I’m lying in the foetal position naked, crying and clutching my laptop to my chest.

I should probably go and interact with the family now. Or at least put some clothes on. If I don’t write again before 2011: Happy New Year!

If I do write again before 2011 then I hope you have a miserable New Year.

In my next blog post I will go back to just swearing about things.

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

My friend Tom wrote about mortality and the fleeting, fragile nature of human life in his first blog post last week because he likes to make really positive first impressions. It’s something that we used to talk about quite a lot when we were at sixth form together because we are both miserable old bastards. I mean, seriously. At 17 years of age we were both all, “OH GOD IT’S ALL GOING SO FAST MOST OF MY LIFE IS ALREADY OVER I’M NOT READY TO BE OLD YET.” How sickening is that? Now that I’m 20 and so genuinely can say that I’m really really old, it’s pretty offensive to think that a young person can claim to be. I guess sometimes people just don’t realise how ridiculous they sound.

Unexpectedly, though, over the last few days I’ve spent a significant amount of time thinking about this. The thing that Tom wrote about. If you follow me on twitter, you might know that my brothers’ dad died last Friday. I shan’t write about the loss specifically, because it’s an intensely personal thing and I prefer not to make the stuff that I put up here too personal, except to say that I didn’t know him particularly well, and that this is something that I regret and that I imagine I will regret increasingly as the shock wears off, but that I did know him, and I’m deeply saddened by his passing and by the profound effect that this has clearly had upon those that I’m close to, and that what happened on Friday hasn’t really sunk in yet.

When I was really little, I sort of thought that parents were these wise, all-knowing, indestructible entities that would be around forever. Just look at Bruce Forsyth. He’s a parent, and he’s never not existed. But as I got a bit older I started to realise that actually parents were, like, human. And wouldn’t be around forever. It’s a weird thing for a kid to realise, but I managed to take quite a lot of consolation in the understanding that I’d probably be a grown-up by the time I did eventually lose my mum, so I’d be okay because grown-ups don’t get upset about stuff. Because they’re grown-ups. I was terrible at spotting logical fallacies when I was 9 years old.

And now… well, I don’t feel like a grown-up yet. I’ve never even had a proper job. But I’m 20 now and I can see that it probably isn’t going to get any easier. My brothers are both in their thirties, and whilst the fact that it’s not a position in my life that’s ever been occupied means that I don’t imagine I’ll ever truly be able to appreciate what it must be like to lose a father, I can see how painful, difficult and overwhelming it is for them. The death of a parent must be an unfathomably awful thing to go through, irrespective of your age. The death of anyone is, of course. But I think that with a parent it’s almost like you’re losing a part of your past, or of yourself, because that person has played such an enormous role in shaping who you are. They’ve always been there. You lose a carer and a friend and a guide. And it’s frightening. My brothers’ loss was tragic and unexpected and cruelly premature and I hate that there’s nothing that I can do. We can hope and wish that the loss of a parent isn’t going to happen, or that it won’t happen in the foreseeable future, but it is completely out of our power. That inevitability of and powerlessness over death is one of the most fundamental things that I should ever need to accept and understand, and yet I’ve found it one of the hardest because I still have this childlike, optimistic world view that’s entirely at odds with it.

I don’t think that the deaths of people that I care about will become any easier to deal with as I get older. They’ll just become more frequent. Perhaps I’ll become steadily more cynical as a result. I hope that doesn’t happen, but I suppose everyone becomes more cynical as they get older. All I can really do is make the most of the time that I have with people, and of the fact that I’m still hopelessly idealistic, because neither of those things are going to last indefinitely. I think that it’s quite easy, when you’re still basically just a kid like I am and like everyone else who writes on this blog is, to forget how finite and delicate life is. Tom has reminders of this almost every day. I had my reminder on Friday.

You see what happens? Matt lets Tom start writing here and then it’s like a massive, fuck-off rain cloud immediately materialises over the whole goddamn blog. You know how sometimes you go to a party and the vibe’s fantastic and everyone’s laughing and talking and having an amazing time and then this guy that everyone hates shows up and shits on the kitchen floor and everyone starts crying? No? That’s because you don’t know Tom.

Actually I would probably make a terrible builder.

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

I’m going to write about the last few days because if I don’t write about the last few days then I probably won’t write about anything for months again. The last few days were significant because I, like, went outside. A long way away from my house. For ages. And didn’t even take my laptop with me. I felt naked.

Mostly because I also did not wear any clothes.

On Tuesday I went to London for another Talkfest – a festive edition of the science blogging thingy that I went to in July. It was a last minute decision. I mean, really last minute… I live in Derbyshire, the thing started at 6.30pm and I decided at 2pm that actually I’d quite like to go. If deciding at fairly short notice that you might like to attend an event where people talk about science blogging for 2 hours and then go to the pub isn’t living on the edge, I really don’t know what is. I got there over an hour later than planned because public transport systems are universally run by gigantacunts that hate me, and also because although I made sure that I knew that the event was definitely taking place in London, I forgot that actually London is quite big and there are a lot of buildings in which the event could conceivably have been hosted. But I did find it, all on my own. Well, all on my own with help from people on twitter and also Google but they are The Internet so do not count. Talkfest was brilliant and interesting and terrifying. I always find myself feeling simultaneously inspired, over-awed and inadequate at these sort of events because all of the people that attend are, like, scary-clever. I’d quite like to do what they do, but I’m an idiot so I don’t expect that I ever will. There’s a massive disparity between what I really want to do after I’ve left university and what I’m realistically capable of. I said in my last blog post that I was thinking about becoming a builder but bricks are quite heavy so I might have to reassess.

After Talkfest my friend Della, one of the scary-clever people, let me sleep on her sofa and fed me toast. I’ve made it sound like she was grooming me now. She wasn’t. She’s very nice. And now that I’m 20 I don’t think that it’s really called grooming anymore. I spent most of Wednesday pissing about with my friend Pria and complaining about things, and then we met up with a couple of others, Tom and Lee, to go and see Nine Lessons and Carols for Godless People. I really, really love these gigs. I went last year and I hope that Robin Ince puts them on again next year. I won’t be able to do them justice if I try to write about them here, but they are an absolute joy and if you ever get chance then you should definitely go to one. It’s heartening that such an unusual, brilliant and unashamedly nerdy gig can attract such large audiences, and Robin Ince should be lauded for these shows. Or canonised. Or both.

On the way out of the theatre, whilst debating whether or not to go to the pub, we bumped into showbiz uber-nerd Matt Parker who was going to the pub. So we decided to go to the pub. I have met Matt on 4 occasions and each time I have either been in a pub, or on my way to a pub, or not initially on my way to a pub but subsequently persuaded to go to a pub. He thinks that I am an alcoholic. But he has been publicly, willingly and enthusiastically touching another man’s groin in 25% of the instances that I have been in his company. Everyone has their crutches.

I am not going to provide any context to the groin thing.

Oh, and before Godless I bought wine in a pub for the first time. I’ve had wine in pubs a couple of times before, but someone else always bought it for me because I’m a freeloading student and sometimes people buy drinks for me out of pity. The stuff that I bought was cheap wine in a cheap student pub. But still. I bought wine in a pub like what the posh do. So the next day I ate in McDonald’s twice to add credence my continued and increasingly desperate assertions that I’m not becoming middle-class.

I’m fucking not.

Speaking of which, I stayed at Pria’s house after Godless and when her mum offered me tea I almost had a panic attack because she asked what sort of tea I wanted. I mean, brown? I couldn’t just ask for brown tea, could I? I don’t know. I’ve heard of green tea, and then there’s the brown stuff what milk goes in. I like the brown tea. But she didn’t just say, “do you want the green tea or the brown stuff what the milk goes in?” I think she saw how terrified I was because then she just asked whether English breakfast was okay and I was a bit confused because it was 12pm which seemed a bit late for breakfast but I said yes anyway and it was okay because I think it was just a posh name for the normal brown tea what milk goes in.

Being middle-class must be so confusing. So many decisions about which beverages to spend all of your millions of pounds on.

Did I mention that I have absolutely no knowledge or understanding of the class system?

Don’t pretend like you didn’t miss me.

Originally posted at Three Blog Night.

It’s been over 2 months since I last wrote something here. I feel negligent (I don’t) and I’m sorry (I’m not), but I’ve been really busy (I haven’t. Well, I have. I don’t know why I told you that I hadn’t, really. I’m just feeling particularly contrary today. [I'm not.]). Lots has happened. I’m not going to write about most of it. Briefly: I started my second year of university, and was perpetually tired. I am home for Christmas now because Oxford terms are 72 hours long. I am still tired.

When I’m in Oxford, I live in college accommodation. This is because my college is one of the few big enough to accommodate everyone for the entirety of their degree, and also because if I avoid stuff like organising my own electricity bills and dealing with landlords then I can pretend that I’m not perilously close to becoming an adult. Which I’m not, so that’s good. College accommodation is of variable quality – universally more than adequate, but some of the finalists and people that are more actively involved in college politics (those infuriating young people that, y’know, actually care about stuff) have shiny new rooms with en-suites and wi-fi. I have a bed, a carpet, a window, a sink, a door… it’s nice. Incidentally, I was talking to someone a few weeks ago who said that he’d lived in an apartment that was really nice, apart from the fact that it didn’t have a door. It might just be that the Oxbridge has gone to my head and I’ve become really spoilt and middle-class, but I think that a door’s pretty essential. It’s like saying, “I have this beautiful new place. Fantastic neighbours, lovely area… I mean, obviously it’s got no roof. And they forgot to put one of the walls in. But apart from that, it’s great.” He writes for the guardian though, so maybe doorless housing is some weird New Age shit that I’m not clued up on yet. Like houmous.

Where I live, I have my own room, and then I share a bathroom and kitchen with 6 others. I think this is pretty much standard as far as student accommodation goes, and it’s nice. I get to live with lots of other young people. Nice. Always people to talk to. Nice. Social. Nice. And I suppose that really all of this is just a round-about way of saying that young people are absolute cunts to live with. When I first arrived at the beginning of term, I noticed 2 signs that someone had written; one in the kitchen saying, “DO NOT UNPLUG THE FRIDGE!!!!” and another in the bathroom that said, “PLEASE PLACE USED PAPER DOWN THE TOILET AND FLUSH AFTER USE”. I laughed when I read these. What a funny joke! It’s funny because this is the University of Oxford but they’re pretending that the people here need shouty prompts to leave electrical equipment plugged in if they want them to work, or to put their shit-rags down the toilet and then flush to make them disappear. Funny! Ha ha ha!

I lament my naivety.

£3,260 per year, I am beginning to realise, is not enough to cover the cost of common sense. Maybe this will be sorted out now that our Tory government has properly fucked us over. Maybe that’s the big plan. Maybe the hike in tuition fees is so that our universities can afford to teach young people that YOU SHOULD MAKE SURE THAT YOU HAVE FLUSHED THE TOILET PROPERLY AFTERWARDS IF YOU ARE GOING TO DO A MASSIVE POO.

I’m not difficult to live with. At least, I don’t think that I am. And I’m a remarkably patient person. But communal student living has triggered the development of my severe and debilitating phobia of plugholes. Everyone that uses our shower has dark hair, which means that the bathroom plughole is like a black hole of matted dread, absorbing all light, hope and small organisms that hit it. And I think that my neighbours are (successfully) trying to use the kitchen sink plughole to develop biological weapons. Christ, the kitchen. There’s an impressive level of skill in the ability of some of my neighbours to not only stack 3 weeks’ worth of dirty crockery without causing the pile to topple, but to remove and wash only the item that they need from that pile and then put it back on top afterwards. It’s like they’re playing a game of lonely Jenga, but with enhanced risks of breakage and dysentery. AND THE FRIDGE! Things happen in there that I didn’t even know were possible, but that must definitely never be talked about. Someone kept an opened tin of tuna somewhere in the back of there for most of the last term, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the person to reach in and try to remove it because people have lost limbs that way. So it sat there for weeks, festering. I don’t know why I’m using the past tense. It was still there when I left just over a week ago; maybe it still is. I have seen milk solidify. I have seen yellow cheese become blue cheese. Nobody should ever have to see the things that I have seen. This must be exactly what ‘nam was like.

So, I’ve told you about how I lived in a building for a couple of months. What else? I’ve spent most of the past 9 weeks failing to find myself a project or supervisor for next year. I went to London a few times. I saw some comedy. People in Oxford keep telling me that I should try doing stand-up comedy. I think that the last few weeks have ensured that my mind is broken enough for me to be a comedian, but I also think that the fact that I’m remarkably unfunny would hold me back a little if I were to take that career path. In fact, I might go as far as to say that an ability to say funny things would be vital. But I don’t think that I’ll be able to be a scientist either, because I can’t do science. Nor a writer, evidently. I’m thinking about becoming a builder. I think I’d make a good builder because I really like tea. And bricks. Fucking love bricks.

It’s 5am. I should sleep more.