Remember Me

I spent last weekend in Nottingham. It turned out to be a strange couple of days. I was very happy, of course, to meet up again with people who I haven’t seen for so long. However, it was also rather sad, for reasons I’m not going to go into here.

Was Lord Hutton awake during the Hutton Inquiry? I worry that, with the Royal Charter for the BBC being up for renewal in two years, Minister of Truth Lord Hutton (Yes, he was appointed as a Peer by Tony Blair. Why do you ask?) has delivered the capability for the government to turn it into a state-run media outlet of an altogether less inspiring nature. There was a debate last night on the radio in which lots of people were saying that a “Liberal clique” runs the BBC. You know what? Good, if it’s true! The Right has always been able to buy or bargain whatever media coverage it needs (See: The Daily Mail backing the BUF because Mussolini told them it was a good idea), and always will. Therefore, I don’t see the BBC having a Liberal bias as a bad thing, in a media overwhelmingly dominated by Right-wing views.

First British Sea Power, and now Franz Ferdinand. What is it, exactly, about a certain type of person in my generation that makes them obsessed with the Edwardian age? I think that it’s the awareness that what happens now will, to a large extent, affect the outcome of the rest of the 21st Century, for better or worse, just as 1900-1914 created the 20th Century. We see in pre-First World War Europe a mirror of ourselves, of a world about to be changed forever by new technologies, of doomed glamour and decadence, and of a hubristic confidence that History Is On Our Side (Fukayama take note). Perhaps we worry that an equivalent apocalypse awaits us, too. Maybe we shouldn’t worry – another Somme, another Verdun – might do us some good.

On a far, far lighter note, I now have a PhD topic, Cyprian being kind enough not to compare me to boiled vegetables of any description. Rather than just doing naval warfare, however, I will be applying my unique brand of analysis to all types of warfare. Now all I have to do is persuade some one that it's worth supervising me on. And get funded for it. Bugger...

Through A Lens, Darkly

Well, what with the amount of time work takes up, and the mind-meltingly dull nature of it, there's not been a whole lot to report. I have a meeting with Cyprian Broodbank on Tuesday, at which he may tell me that a boiled potato could come up with a better PhD proposal than mine. I hope he doesn't, of course, but it is possible.

Yesterday I expanded the saga of my eyesight by going to Specsavers (who have not paid me for this advertising) for some glasses. Imagine my surprise when their optometrist agreed with the medical folk and said that there is nothing I need glasses for. Apparently I should try blinking more, though (NOTE: This, despite all appearances, is not a joke). I'm still not sure how to feel. Given that there may be something wrong with my eyes that medical science knows nothing of, perhaps a sense of rising panic would be appropriate.

Speaking of medical science, I'll be spending next weekend with Chris the Medic, a Keyser Soze-type figure in my life for the past 18 months - known only from rumour and legend. It's his finals in March, after which he will be unleashed upon the public as a healthcare professional. To think that he once deliberately threw crisps all over my living room...

I recently finished The Long Firm which I rather enjoyed, apart from one slightly unlikely segment. Any London gangster novel which finishes with a critique of 1960s and 70s Sociology is fine by me. I've also just read Rex Warner's The Aerodrome an interesting little book which could make a rather nice British film.

Thats all from me, until I've come up with something else to talk about.

See - Billy Idol Gets It - So Why Doesn't She?

So, we come to the first ever New Year’s entry from me. Expect me to point out all sorts of anniversaries and firsts for the Blog this year, until I get irate e-mails telling me to stop.

Christmas was, of course, spent at home, and a good time was had by all – even if we did somehow manage to forget the rules of Trivial Pursuit. For New Year’s Eve I went to Nottingham (rather than Scotland, where New Year’s Eve had to be cancelled due to the weather. Are they still in 2003?) on the highly eccentric TransPeak bus.

New Year’s was suitably random. For example, we ended up crashing the Games Workshop mail order workers party for about 10 minutes at midnight. Is my memory correct in that only giant Geordie blokes work for GW?

After this, I managed to have another suspiciously cinematic moment. I turned left out of the party and walked down the deserted side street, unable to remember the name of what I was looking for. Then I saw it and it shot straight back into memory. Sherwin Grove. A real Go-Between moment. I went on, then walked alone in the freezing rain back over the bridge to Warwick Street.

Before I sign off, I’ll list the books that are in my bag as I go back to London. See what they say about me at the dawn of 2004.

The Last Crusade: The Palestine Campaign in the First World War by Anthony Bruce
The Long Firm by Jake Arnott
The Berlin Novels by Christopher Isherwood
Killer in the Rain by Raymond Chandler
The Soft Machine by William Burroughs
Film Noir: Reflections in a Dark Mirror by Bruce Crowther
Imperial Adventurer: Emperor Maximilian of Mexico and his Empress by Joan Haslip

I Have Yet To Be Offered Any Rock ‘N’ Roll

A week of rather odd occurrences this time, which is rather a good job, as my work is hardly anything to write home about, unless you find printing out bar-codes and sticking them onto medical files fascinating.

Odd occurrence number one was a complete Hollywood moment: I was going up the escalator at Kings Cross when I suddenly realised that coming down the opposite escalator was Vicky from college, who I haven’t seen for two years. We even both said “Oh my God!” simultaneously, which may have freaked out the person stood behind me. We exchanged phone numbers, so I may have found someone to go and do all the London things I didn’t get round to doing while I was a student.

Odd occurrence number two is far less salubrious, and proves that I am indeed living in The Big City. On my way to work the other morning I was approached by a prostitute looking for early-morning work. At least, I think that’s what happened (my PSE lessons at school failed to include the module “Bartering With Whores”). She was lurking by the bus stop next to Finsbury Park, and said “You want business?” in an Eastern European accent as I passed. I probably should have corrected her (“No, no, if you’re doing the soliciting then surely you’re the one who wants business”), but, needless to say, I didn’t. Instead I smiled my Slightly Embarrassed Smile and said something like “Er…no thanks”, before heading off to the station.

For those who like to keep track of my Unknown Armies lifestyle (approx. 2% of my readership) I offer these snippets:

1) Who would leave bundles of the South African Times outside Manor House tube every so often, and what do they hope to gain by it?

2) That café-bar on Green Lanes. The one that always seems closed apart from big parties on some nights. Its address? 333 Green Lanes. Draw your own conclusions.

As this is probably going to be my last entry this year, I’d like to wish you all a Happy Christmas and a Most Interesting New Year…

A Means To An End

You will doubtless all be delighted to know that I now officially have work! I start at 1 PM today, at Beckton, the far end of the Docklands Light Railway (which is made of Lego). The only thing that concerns me is that I may only get the 25th, 26th, and the 1st as holidays. I’m really grateful for the job and everything, but taking away my Christmas seems a little harsh.

I’m also now able to think about siting down and planning my PhD proposal. Something about Mycenaean maritime strength and what it all meant. I could even call it “Stephen O’Brien’s Classic ‘The Decline Of Mycenaean Sea Power’ ”. But I probably won’t.

My Sister The Censor

Well, my sister tells me the good news: that she will, from January onwards be employed as a Film Classifier by the BBFC. She’s only allowed to do the job for five years, to prevent her becoming depraved by having to rate, say, Patch Adams II. She is, as Bjork would say “Very much dead chuffed”.

On another Blog, I was described as someone’s “Blogging Cohort”. I can’t help but feel that it sounds like an insult. Imagine the scene: the interior of a dodgy East-End pub. All of a sudden someone shouts “Oi, you blogging cohort, those videos you sold me don’t work!”

I Am A Master Of Archaeology!

Sometimes, everything happens at once. I’m hoping that Pete The Mathematician will be able to provide me with some Einsteinian physics to back that statement up with, but if not, who cares?

I am, as the title subtly suggests, now a Master of Archaeology, although I don’t have the official mark yet. Cyprian says that I got a high 2:1, which should be enough to do a PhD, but not necessarily at the Institute of Archaeology. I must confess to being a little disappointed, as I was right on the very edge of a Distinction, but I shouldn’t grumble too much. Now, of course, I have to think of a convincing topic to do a PhD on, and apply for funding.

Jobs are throwing themselves at me thick and fast, too. I seem, against all the odds, to have successfully passed the tests at an employment agency, and may be getting five months Data Entry to do as a result. No one was more surprised by this than me, as at one point I considered hari-kiri as a preferable alternative to being told that the score on my Excel test indicated that I was some manner of spoon-faced moron.

In addition to this, the Control Risks Group say that I passed their tests, but the work won’t start until the end of January. I need money before then. From a letter I received this morning, it would appear that my efforts to join the sinister military-industrial complex are going well. The MOD want to interview me.

So, while the future may not be so bright that I have to wear shades, at least it’s stopped being all German Expressionist.

Bonzo Goes To Buckingham

Bonzo goes to Buckingham then goes out for a cup of tea
As I watched it on TV somehow it really bothered me
Drank in all the bars in town for an extended foreign policy
Pick up the pieces
Pick up the pieces

(With Apologies to The Ramones)

Excavating The Abyss

For those who want a sign that I'm not yet ready to apply for any job, take a look at this.

Am I Living In A Box?

Yesterday I went to see how work on my flat progresses. It’s mostly there, with only carpets, blinds, and radiators needing to be done. I should be living there by the middle of next week. Honest.

On Saturday me, Caitlin and Martin went to see David Blane lurking in his perspex box next to Tower Bridge. Very surreal atmosphere down there. When we arrived, he was slumped forwards and not moving. After a bit he sat up and started waving, much to the delight of the hoards of screaming teenage girls that he attracts. If I’d realised when I was 14 that the best way to pull was to take the evolutionarily-risky strategy of locking myself in a box and not eating, I could have saved myself a whole lot of trouble. Mr. Blane is, of course, now out. I’m not convinced that it was all as important as he seems to think.

I am now engaged in the process of signing-on for my Jobseekers Allowance. Thursday will be my third visit to the Jobcentre, and perhaps the last one. I think three meetings to get this done is a bit inefficient, but what do I know? I hopefully won’t be relying on the Allowance for too much longer, as I’m applying for three jobs at the moment, two of which I have a reasonable shot at getting an interview for. I’d tell you what they are, but if I did, and you went and got one of them instead of me, then I’d have to track you down and beat you with a pillow. This way is better for us all.

Jen now has a blog all of her own, "We Eat A Nut and an Insect", which you can get to via the links section to the right. I hope to hear more of Timo’s drug-fuelled rampages in the future.

Down And Out In Hampstead And Harringay

Blimy, but yesterday was a barrel of…something. I’m still not sure what it was, but it tasted funny. I got rejection e-mail from Bernard Quaritch Ltd, the antiquarian bookshop. Brook Street employment agency refused to register me, on the basis that they want six months office experience, and I only have three. Bastards.

By way of a pick-me-up, I went to the first proper Gamesoc meeting of the year. A good time was had by all, and afterwards we retired to the nearest pub. It was at this point that the evening began to become “hilarious”. I should point out that, having drunk two pints only, alcohol played no part in the following events.

Having turned down a final drink (Here my troubles did begin. The lesson is, never stop drinking), I headed back to my sister’s flat, having earlier given her back the keys because I knew I’d be out late. I got back at midnight and rang the bell. Failing to get any response, I rang the bell on and off for about ten minutes. Eventually, the intercom came to life. Unfortunately, it was the bloke from the downstairs flat, complaining about the noise and demanding that I stop it and clear off (To this man I direct the following statement: “Fuck you, you motherfucking goat-fister. If the noise of a doorbell ringing in someone else’s flat is enough to annoy you, then you deserve to be annoyed. By as many people as possible”). I stopped ringing the bell. Being unable to raise my sister on the phone, I considered my options.

a) Spend eight hours in the front yard on what was rather a cold night.
b) Think of something else.

All the trains and busses had stopped, so my (b) was to get a Taxi to Harringay in the hope that Alan would let me sleep on his floor. Veritable Saint that he is, he provided me with a spare bed at 1:30 this morning. And he had to be up at some ungodly hour.

I made it into this flat again at about midday today, in sore need of a cup of coffee and a shower. With any luck, I should be in my own flat come Sunday or Monday, hopefully reducing the chances for a repeat of such hilarity.

Post.

Well, it's been a while since I last posted. Due to a delay at the Butchers flat I'll be here at my sisters flat until the weekend. I might be making progress on the jobs front, too. There's a scientific catalogue company down in Putney Bridge that wants Data Entrants at £7.50 per hour. I could do that. I've also applied for a job at a bookshop on Charing Cross Road. How hard can selling a book be?

On Friday I helped out with the Gamesoc stand at ULU Fresher's Fayre. The three main reactions were mockery, genuine interest, or completely ignoring us. Most amusing was the Eastern European girl who seemed to believe that we were the Rock & Metal Society for some reason.

As I've said before, I'll try and visit Nottingham when I'm straightened out here. However, I may have to visit Brighton too, so don't count on it! I should be able to attend the usual New Year's mayhem, though.

That's it for now...

The Sound Of Summer Packing Its Bags

Well, during the week Ulla left, and today Allen and Emily do the same. Me, I’m staying to the bitter end, leaving here on Tuesday morning. My flat above the butcher’s shop on Green Lanes won’t be ready until the weekend, so I’ll stay in my sister’s flat until it is.

I won’t have Internet access in the new flat, so expect my posts here and e-mails to get a lot less frequent. Phone calls and letters from people who know me will be gratefully received.

The job search goes on. I’ve registered with several employment agencies, and will look at some of the part-time jobs available from the Uni careers service. There was also a job in the paper that might be worth going for.

See you in the future.

Do You Wanna Make Tea At The BBC?

Not really, but quite frankly I'd take it if they were to offer me such a job. Today I got my rejection letter from the Mary Evans Picture Library. On the plus side, this means that I don't have to worry about finding somewhere to live where I can get out to SE3 easily. I may even be staying in Green Lanes.

On a brighter note, yesterday I bought my celebratory things. The Memento DVD (so I can watch it forwards and clear up any confusion from the first time I saw it), and the British Sea Power album, 'cos I need a band to get into now that Pulp are gone. I can't resist a band that calls its first album "The Decline of British Sea Power". Maybe I'll go and see them at ULU next month.

Over The Edge

It finally happened: two days ago I ceased to be a Student and became Something More Than Student. It ended with a questionnaire, an envelope, and a pile of dissertations. For around fifteen minutes I held in my hands the result of months of labour, and then it was gone.

Afterwards I walked around UCL. The international undergraduates had arrived. It was weird for one of last year’s ghosts to see campus come back to life just as he was leaving.

In the bar I talked with people whose names I should have known, but had somehow forgotten. Ned spoke with someone I couldn’t see, and then vanished. I was informed that while the fat at the front of my torso is too firm to be enjoyable, the fat at the sides of my torso is of the finest quality.

Only one question remains: “What now?”

Approaching Terrifying Freedom

Gah. Attempted to be clever yesterday, by going into the Institute and printing out my dissertation ahead of time. Unfortunately, the Institute has started shutting down completely on Saturdays. A wasted trip, then, other than wandering round Waterstones seeing what books I’ll buy after Monday, when I will officially allow myself to buy things again.

Last night we had a barbecue for Jen’s birthday. I enjoyed myself, at one point being so drunk that I mistook the illuminated window of one of the neighbouring houses for the moon. We managed to leave some beer in the freezer so long that it, er, froze. I look forward to finding out how reconstituted beer tastes.

If anyone wants to know what an interesting Blog entry looks like, check out the most recent entry at “Mind On The Run”. Piracy, minor celebrities, and spoon-faced morons. One day my Blog will be that good.

Fiddly Jobs (Redux)

Well, my hunt for a job to allow my decadent London lifestyle to continue goes on. Last week I applied for a job as English Heritage’s hired research goon. Today I applied for a remarkably similar job with the Mary Evans Picture Library. As the Mary Evans Picture Library is in the part of London marked “here be dragons” on maps, I’m hoping to get the English Heritage one. The Picture Library also wanted a hand-written letter of application. Grrrrr.

In the paper yesterday there was an ad for a job at a “Cartoon Gallery” in SW1. Could this be my way to get a more humorous job than Tom The Elizabethan Sailor?

Today’s fiddly job was going through the bibliography and making sure that everything was referenced according to the UCL standards, and in alphabetical order. This time next week, my work on the dissertation will be no more. This is a good thing.

Apparently my sister ran 10k in 65 minutes, which sounds pretty good.

The God Of Small, Fiddly Jobs

I spent today going through my dissertation and removing words like “and”, in clever ways, all to try and get the word count down. I’m allowed no more than 15, 000 on pain of being fired. Out of a cannon into the Sun. I am still over, but by so little I should get away with it.

Last night I got drunk and had a kebab with Ned while watching the football. Good God but the Macedonia Vs England game was dull. I mean, I know it’s the result that counts and everything, but really, this was bad. Contrast it with the Wales game, which, despite going badly wrong for the Welsh, was at least exciting.

My sister ran the 10k race in Richmond, today. I wait to find out how it went.

If Nothing Else Of Interest Occurs, Bake

Well, last night I baked the Athenian Walnut Cake once again. Things are supposed to get easier the more times you do them, but this was improbably hard. Last night I had to do several things that I have no memory of doing last time I made the cake. And 700g of walnuts is too much for anyone. Despite this, and the fact that the core of the finished cake was (oxymoronically) solid goo, the cake was well received.

In Which I Pretend To Be A Nicer Person

Emily’s mother has arrived. We are now that rarest of things, a student house with a proper parent. Consequently, I am on my best behaviour.