Monday, November 29, 2004

Hey,

Like, oh my god, its last week of term, its gone so fast etcetera fizzles out of excitement couldn't care less.

Not discounting the final week of term, which I'm sure will be simply super, darlings, lets go for a quick recap.

I started in October, like everyone else, a struggling artist, still trying to get regular gigs for me and my band. As luck would have it, we broke from our ambient jazz infused speed-thrash metal formula to create a disco number which merged a standard R'n'B beat with the looped sample of a old man falling out of a hammock. The accompanying MTV video was banned until after midnight for its distubing use of subliminal images advocating the use of the banned drug nandrolone in desserts and casseroles, but in doing so, a cult underground following was created.

A brief misunderstanding with the tax authorities meant that for a while I was indeed king of the underground, living in a burrow in Kent. While there, talking to a rodent called Nigel, I discovered a gift that would transform my life. I had developed a photographic memory, which coupled with the ability to print images on a naturally created paper from out of my buttocks led me to assume the role of human Polaroid camera. Doctors warned me that such a reputation could be bad for my health, and that I may fall ill with exposure.

The money was starting to role in.

Tragedy struck in November as all my limbs fell off. A nationwide Daily Mail campaign began to raise money to pay for me to go to zoo before the end, because it had always been my dream. As luck would have it, a miracle in the form of Dr Raymond Snitzelkraus occured, who offered to perform the operation free of charge, in exchange for lifetime tickets to our future shows. The operation was a complete success, as within ten minutes he had sewn my arms and legs back onto my body with a old Singer he found in his attic. With the extra thread, I was given back to gift of motion as a full time puppeteer was employed to stand above me and through him I learned to walk, run, swim, dance and laugh once more. However, his presence in the bedroom made it hard to keep a girlfriend, as his continual, borderline-racist jokes ruined the mood.

In the latter part of the month, I received mainstream musical acclaim as I joined 4000 other publicity whores for Band Aid 20, loudly shouting anti-capitalist slogans over the chorus in an attempt to endeare me with the British public. I later found out that my microphone had been cut out, my part erased off the final copy, and my face on the promotional photo covered up by an unrealistically sized ham sandwich. After the recording, I got into a fight with Bono, who I had caught muttering something defamatory as I walked past. The situation was looking like it was getting out of control before Justin Hawkins strode up to us, raised his hands and said "enough".

I am glad to say the future looks good.

I never made it to the zoo, but I keep the dream alive.

Craig

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Hey,

I am currently unable to move from a cold place (such as outside) to a warm place (such as inside) without the transition being remarkably uncomfortable. My skin prickles up like it is no longer with its current role, that is, being wrapped around my body, and would like to move on to new and exciting roles as possibly a picnic blanket. I then go into some demented dance routine where I try to discover the exact parabola my spine has to map out in order to stop my skin from leaving. It happens at unfortunate times. It turns out that there is no room to do this in the small toilet in Wolfson building. It must have sounded like someone was trying to bath a cat from the outside, what with the banging and cursing that I remember distinctly.

I have a range of options. Firstly, I could implement a system where the temperature gradually increases as I go up the stairs. This would involve some highly technical fiddling with the dials on the radiators here, and seeing as they have two settings: "Gas Mark 4" and "Are you Kidding me?", doesn't leave a huge amount of room for incremetation. The second is to never leave my room again. On a similar train of thought, I could never return indoors again, but this presents certain hygiene problems, not to mention never being able to update this thing again.

I am certain that pretty soon, my skin will just fall off, and I will be left standing there, forced to confront my true, inner identity.

I feel like a caterpiller.

You know, because of my thirteen sets of limbs.

Craig

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Decided to not be selfish and came home. It's OK here, they know me.
Hey,

Lazy, crazy weekend behind me. Fully packed remaining two weeks ahead of me. Voices all around me. Hello. Welcome to my head.

I should be heading home this evening, for reasons that makes everyone look at me strangely. It comes down to this: I said I was going to come home twice this term, I do have some stuff to sort out at home, I'm not spending Christmas with them, and I will still go, even if its tomorrow morning, so its not like I'm going to save any money by not going tonight.

But then, I could go to Vertigo tonight, watch At Risk, curse stupid indie kids and get a bit drunk. Tricky one, non?

By the way, doesn anyone know if there is an Oxford Creative Writing Society, or if there is still a St Anne's one. I've decided that, one, I like writing, two, I think other people like me writing, three, I need a hobby, and four, damn it, this girl got a publishing deal from her blog, and I'm half as coherent, twice as unscrupulous and 32% taller. Possibly, with a standard error of 0.15.

Speak soon,

Craig

Friday, November 19, 2004

Something was in the air that day. It was the smell of gravy. Strong, poweful gravy. The gravy of death. I, a Guild of the Assassin's member, BA Hons, moved under the cover of dark. I removed the duvet briefly on the corner of St Giles because it was getting warm and sticky, before moving on. I became suddenly aware that a joke can be overused, and I fought to control my panic. Using guile (and chun-li), I dodged past the guards of the mighty fortress of St John. One such guard was persuaded to dispatch information about the location of the target using a single spork. His family have been informed.

From there progress was easy. Climbing across the rooftops, jumping from ledge to ledge, down chimneys and through half open windows, the I nimbly moved on without opposition. From the ground, guile and chun-li wondered why I didnt just use the door like everyone else. In the distance, a herd of cattle broke free from the milking machine and run rampant over the farm-hands, but this does not concern our story.

Using my finely tuned lock pick skills, I broke the window and climbed in, mumbling something unheard of, like, "bugger, thats my thumb". With the target reached, the only thing left was the kill. The door opened, and for a brief second, the victim expressed a look, half of terror, half of confusion, half of lust. But I would not be swayed. The dagger plunged deep into the chest of the girl, and she was dead. But wait, she uses her last energy to speak. "Phl" she says. Ok, now she's dead.

With a heavy heart, two lamp chops and a pack of sausages, I left the awful place. The moment of the first kill was over, and the only place now was to look to the future. Which, as it turned out, was a mistake, because had I looked to the left, I would have noticed the herd of cattle ploughing towards me and avoided a lengthy stay at the local infirmary.

To be continued...

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Hey,

There was much grunting and banging from upstairs. I decided, on the third day, that this was enough. Confidently, I went upstairs. However, the wide open door and the loud gasp and the cry of "keep going through the pain" sent me scurrying back down again. Wild, passionate, borderline masochistic sex is fine by me, but not step aerobics. Those people make me sick.

Craig
Hey,

So I finally manage to get out to a rock night for the first time in a month, at Ox Rock Soc's Disorder club night. We got there for the headline act, a Cardiff based hardcore band called Shaped by Fate, who were really, really fucking heavy. The lead singer was up in the front row's faces screaming, like, "Fuck gerbils, I really hope this kettle boils". Or something, you know? Actually, I'm just shamelessly ripping off that guys bit where he made up, entirely, what the songs were about: "This is a song about Stella Artois" "This song is about being in a metal band, aw fuck it, its about being kicked in the balls". And, most beautifully, "This song is about umpa-lumpas. You know, those little orange bastards. Someone thought I was one, once. Anyway, this song is about being sexually abused by umpa-lumpas and Mr Willy Wonka himself".

It was funny watching some of the people on the front row. It was kind of like when I wasp is flying in your face and you can hear your parent's voice telling you not to flinch. There was a grimace, a tensing of the shoulders, and the briefest, tiniest suggestion that being a long, long way away at this point would be a good, good thing. If it had been me, I would have, you know, messed up his hair or something, but then I am true metal.

The club itself was good, if populated like most small Welsh villages. The DJ played loads of stuff that I like - Megadeth, Metallica, Rage, Rammstein, SOAD, they even dragged a Papa Roach song out that really worked. Quick tip for the DJ: people there were real rock fans. Going from Killing in the Name Of to Without Me by Eminem may work at Sabotage, but not so much last night. See that dancefloor emptying in front of you? You did that. You did it. T'other Craig, don't worry. I made it home. I met some people. They all seem nice.

I replied to an email from the RockSoc president saying I would be happy to act as college rep for the society. Here's what I am hear to tell you: Join Rocksoc. Listen to metal. Wear spiky bits.

Started playing Assassin Last Man Standing Game yesterday. So far, I'm still alive. I have killed no-one. More news as it happens, in the order that it happens.

Speak soon,

Craig

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Hey,

Signing out for the weekend...

----------------------------

Porter: Tickets, please.

Me: Excuse me?

Porter: Sorry, I thought I was someone else.

Me: Oh well, I'm sure you're not. I'd like to go home.

Porter: Well, you just need to fill out this form for me.

Me: OK, name. I'm sorry, I don't know your name.

Porter: No, I mean fill out that form with your details for me.

Me: Is that allowed?

Porter: I'd rather you did it quietly. Looks like its going to be a nice weekend for it.

Me: It's going to rain.

Porter: True. Well, I suppose it depends what you want to do. I don't recommend sunbathing.

Me: Well, what do you recommend?

Porter: I hear the coq au vin is very nice.

Me: Don't talk to me about food. I'll have to get something from the buffet cart.

Porter: That's a lot to take with you for one weekend. Do you want a hand with that down the steps?

Me: No, the buffet cart is on the train.

Porter: Ah, you're going on the train, are you? Virgin?

Me: I am, but I don't see as I need to write that down. Oh no, wait, there is a box for it. Now, why do you need my star sign?

Porter: I'm an ornithologist.

Me: Don't they study birds?

Porter: Probably. I'm not a very good one.

Me: All done.

Porter: Well that's fine. Now, if I can just see your letters of recommendation.

Me: Recommendation?

Porter: Yes, to let us know you have a valid reason for this unusual request.

Me: I've got this one...

Porter: No, I'm afraid he's a wanted war criminal...

Me: This one from the prime minister?

Porter: Same reason, I'm afraid. Look, I'll forget about it if you get me a date.

Me: I've got this fig?

Porter: That will do. Now, if you'll just sign.

Me: Why?

Porter: I'm deaf, you see.

Me: I don't, actually. I'm blind. Actually, where am I?

Porter: St. Anne's College.

Me: Oh, in that case can I have a room?

Porter: Certainly, I think someone has just signed out, so you can have that one.

------------------------------

Craig

Monday, November 15, 2004

I needed to vent and to clear my thoughts and put them down in a clear order for the next round. I really don't need anyone to post a comment on this or the previous post. So, anyone that does will be strangled with their own colon.

Craig
This post is called Home Truths (or when you realise that you and your parents have completely different opinions about effectively everything important in adult life)

It started, fairly innocuously, with a passport. I think I am perfectly within my rights to take my passport as and when I please to visit my girlfriend in France. It just so happened that my mother needed some ID for me to set me up as a trustee on their investment bond. I brought it home with me.

The problems began.

You see, the viewpoint of my parents is that this year, I am in Oxford, and Cath is in France. I don't need my passport again this term. I should just be strong. Wait a fucking minute? I should be strong? How is this hard on me? I'm in a grown up, full time, long term relationship. It's all about sacrifice - putting yourself out sometimes because the other person is having a hard time. You share these things. It doesn't affect my work, it doesn't affect my sleep and it doesn't affect anybody else.

Turns out my Dad was in favour of keeping my passport. Counterpoint: I'm twenty, it's my passport, you'll have nothing. Retort: You're still dependent on us, so there should be a lot more give and take. Fuck me. Apart from the fact that sounds like a threat, it goes against what I think parenting is about: its not a "I'll do this if you do that" type trade-off. Parents do not give and take, they fucking give and should expect nothing. I'm grateful. I appreciate what you have done for me. That's the sort of parent I hope to be.

I also explained what I want to do with my life after university. I explained how doing a masters gives me access to more jobs, and that I really want to do one. I was explaining how the Civil Service seemed like an excellent place to work, where they promote debate and intellectual thought and direct use of economics in all work. You enter as an assistant and can train to be an full, independent economist within a couple of years. There are promotions up to advisory level. First question: "How much does it pay?". I haven't asked that question myself, I don't want to know. I did know this time because it was presented to us during the presentation: £55-60,000 a year by the time you've been promoted up to advisor.

It was announced just before I left this morning that my parent's think I'm selling myself short, that all the money that has gone into my education and will continue to go into my education is for nothing, that I won't earn enough to justify it. How about considering more important things than money? How about feeling fufilled as a intelligent human being? How about, crazy as it sounds, doing some work that actually might help other people?

So, for all those keeping count, that's relationships, family, work and money (including the long-going student overdraft debate). I find it staggering that the people who mould you from a young age don't represent the way I think in the slightest way. I think Rage Against the Machine put it best when they said: fuck you I won't do what you tell me.

Fuck you I won't do what you tell me.

Fuck you I won't do what you tell me.

Fuck you I won't do what you tell me.

FUCK YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME.

MOTHERFUCKERS.

Friday, November 12, 2004

Hey,

The clock says it is late. I took the news pretty hard. As the tears run freely, all I can think of are the good times me and the clock had together. I remember our first evening together, I sat one side of the table, drinking a strong, full bodied sirloin, it sat opposite, blinking madly, almost hyponotically. The following morning, we woke up together. I yawned and smiled, she said "WBEEEP, BEEEP" until I smashed her on the head and she shut up. It was on heart warming moments like these our relationship was built.

At some points, being with the clock made me feel like time was standing still. For a week in August 2003, I believed it was always 12:00. I would come to realise that she was hiding the power cut from me, like an embarassing secret. It would always be so, I would tell her that she was too quiet, she would just sit there, staring at me face to face, occasionaly spitting on my gerbils.

But now the clock is gone. She is no more, and I can never have that back. In many ways, ours was a relationship that was never going to work: I, a fully grown adult male, she, a clock, and a staunch Tory at that. I can only hope there are more like her.

Craig

Since this was broadcast, Craig packed up his small gerbil shop in Melton Mowbray and moved to Uzbekistan, where he met a sundial. The clock left $400,000 to a tablelamp. The sirloin hasn't been heard from since.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

If anyone hasn't added theroadfrogg to your Friends list, could you? Exclusion brings back unhappy childhood memories, when I used to tell all the other kids who they could talk to.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Hey,

When I read when I was younger, I used to encounter words that I had never seen before. So, I would mark the page with a finger and keep on reading. Sometimes I would read for an hour, and maybe have four or five or seven fingers stuck into previously read pages. Sometimes I would read for even longer, and I would have to stick bits of card, Lego, food, other books or my brother in to bookmark all the unknown words. Then, I would go downstairs and ask my mother what all the words meant. She would generally know the answer, but to this day I don't understand a "standing ovation" doesn't mean "producing an egg in an upright position".

Anyway, I don't do that anymore. I just bypass things and make up what sounds roughly like a defintion. It strikes me that this might one day get my in a bit of trouble. So, I ask you, my fantastic readership, to tell me words. Words that are long and great. Words that you can say and stroke your beard afterwards, safe in the knowledge that you are an Intellectuer. I need you, my friends. Come now, and make me verbose.

I will check on your progress when I get back from my self-flagellation lectures.

Craig

Friday, November 05, 2004

Well, that was a nice interlude. In the between time I wrote an essay and went to sleep. The sleep was better than the essay, but I don't get any marks for it. I think the essay was longer than the sleep.

One thing is still bugging me. On Wednesday, I walked past someone I swear was rude to me in the past couple of weeks. I can't for the life of me picture where he works. All my brain says is "Hey, guy with a moustache different coloured to the hair, you don't like him". "Yes", I retort, "but why?" "Oh", says my brain with a big smile, "I'm not going to tell you that. Ask someone else". "But I don..." I manage before my brain snaps back, "Sleep now. Go pester some other organ". So anyway, I bugged my nose for a while, which also ignored me, until I punched it, fracturing it in five places. The doctor believes I should never go back to those places. Which all goes to show: never punched your self in the face to spite your nose. Or something deep and meaningful. I believe there was a point to all this, which if your interested in, can be found way up there. I'm probably just talking to myself at this point.

Yep, it's just me.

OK, I'm away until Sunday, so no updates until such a time. Maybe even later.

Speak soon,

Craig


Thursday, November 04, 2004

Hey,

I noticed few of the girls were not in lunch today. I also believe today is the day the Ann Summers delivery arrives. I make no comments, but I would expect a fairly graphic drawing from Ed to illustrate the point within the next 24 hours.

I also noticed two things from other journals in the past week. Firstly, Craig said "Lets eat pie on Monday" and three people posted to say, effectively, "PIE!". Then, Sarah posted to say she liked cake, and 5 people replied to say, effectively, "CAKE!". I'd like to thank everyone involved for your contributions to the future of humanity.

And now, a brief musical interlude.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Hey,

Well, this is ridiculous. The power in my block has been out for, like, TEN YEARS now, so I'm typing this in the Hartland House. The House is empty. It is quiet and eerie here. If I listen hard, I hear a distant rustling. It is the rustling of a young man. Maybe he died here a long time ago. I am scared but I listen harder. Keith asks me what the hell I am doing and would I like a crisp, and I jump and scream and run, but I can not escape. They are Prawn Cocktail and they are everywhere.

It's a sad truth of British politics that I can't really get involved with the re-election process as people in America have done. I dislike the current government, but I don't want the opposition in its current form. Hey, remember when Britain had a political left? I could get involved with the Lib Dems, in fact, thats probably where my allegiance currently lies, but there's no real fight there. Still, the US elections managed to hold my attention for a decent period of time. And no, I can't believe Bush won. IantheITguy said that the election hadn't actually happened yet. I smile as I consider that the election be used as a survey to find the more unsuitable voters from the standpoint of both world security and sensible moral values, and "exclude" them in future.

But this is unlikely. So here's a bit of political justice for the world, because I love you all:

Dear Republican Voter,

You're drafted.

Yours,
George.

Speak soon,

Craig

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Hey,

We went to watch the Imps last night, and it was very funny. A couple of them really, really get the whole improv concept, working in the silly ideas, bringing in jokes outside of the sketch, changing direction with ease and openly making fun of themselves and everyone else ("I'll just get my toolbag. Well, its usually a toolbag, but today its a handbag..."). They had one game where occasionally, they would, instead of carry on talking, read from scraps of paper written down by the audience: "Let's see what the dog was to say" "Woof woof, I am Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die, woof woof". I plan to go at least one more time this term, so I'm looking for people to go with. For £2, it seems like pretty much some of the best fun you can have without having to do anything. I found out sitting by the aisle means you get asked for suggestions all over the place, and then taken up on stage to join in one game, but to be honest, it was a load more fun for it.

Stop. Shower time.

Speak soon,

Craig