So, you might ask, "why, Craig, are you still sitting around in a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt at half 12 in the afternoon?" To which I reply, "Well, sir, I am back home, for the summer, and I may not put on a pair of trousers again until October."

Got stuff to do. Maybe if I write it down here, I'll remember better:

1. Get new phone.
2. Get taxman to give me my money back.
3. Get changed.
4. Get haircut.
5. Get unpacked.
6. Get a career.
7. Get a family.
8. Get a fucking big television.
9. Get a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
10. Get away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.
11. Get a life.

And the semi-obscure pop culture references march on...

Wrestling came this morning by mail. The mailman is lovely for presenting me with new wrestling. What is more, it is mexican wrestling, and I cry tears of joy for mexican wrestling is better than Kanyon. Watched the second Ultimo vs. Shocker match, and it is great for a sub ten minute match. Shocker rules. Ultimo rules more. Ricky Marvin and Zumbido are crazy and fast and suicidal and I love it all. God bless the mexicans, dying for my pleasure on Mexican mimimum wages. I have watched so little wrestling in the past two months I may go into overload.

So, had extra few days in Oxford. I seems I have accidentally tripped and fallen and become an Oxford cliche (with metalhead tendencies and an overwhelming urge to lower the tone of any conversation) over the past two months. I now own a U of O t-shirt, and will freely say U of O, despite the obvious physical repurcussions. I want to punt and play croquet and go to arty or foreign films and walk around all day in flip-flops, irrespective of how cold, wet or flammable the immediate environment is. I want to shoot rowers in the foot with a harpoon and tell them that there is no 6 o'clock in the morning. If you ask us, do we not say "no, not Brookes"? If you lecture us, do we not doze quietly in a corner? If we study English, do we not end up at asking whether fries are wanted with that? And, if you charge us, do we not pass the bill on to our parents?

I have no earthly idea where that rant came from.

Things that I have done in the past two weeks that I didn't talk about. Went to watch the Imps and the Revue and laughed my ass off. The Imps are clearly bouncing off the walls of insanity, and are brilliant at what must be a nerve-wracking genre of comedy. The Revue came up with a plethora of excellent sketches. The hands-on sexual education class was tasteless and awesome. The Goodfellas clown sketch was pretty great. The First Class Hobo (now featuring the Lament of the Cannibal Walras) was a fine curtain closer. In between, there was plenty of good moments. Of course, there were slower sections, but that's how sketch shows go.

In the past week, we saw a Confidence Trois Intimes, which I thought was good, and Jersey Girl, which was OK, but not exactly Kevin Smith's best. It probably beats Jay and Silent Bob, but is nowhere near as good as Dogma or Chasing Amy. I need to see Clerks. Ben Affleck is a much better actor is these films, I notice.

That'll do. I promise regular updates. I realy, really promise.

Speak soon,

Craig