Blues at home

It's strange it not being in winter. OK so technically it IS winter here, what with it being only twenty degrees an all, but it's weird it not being an ENGLISH winter, a cold miserable IT'S CHRISTMAS SOON YOU CAN'T ESCAPE IT winter. I was reminded of this as I watched Wolves vs Blues via a shitty internet stream from Arabia (mm hmm) that froze very often and once for the whole first half of the second half, in fact more than that because I missed both goals.

Anyway, at half time (for which it worked perfectly of course) there were adverts of christmas things, and winter clothes, and more christmas deals at Asda and Tesco and all other sorts of detestable places. In India there is NOTHING to tell you of the upcoming day, so this was quite strange. In fact I lie, there is one MASSIVE poster (and I really mean MASSIVE) that says "Extra Christmas!!!" or something in big letters, accompanied by a man with a big moustache and a bigger smile, and lots of Telugu words. Whatever this means, it is being celebrated on the 13th-15th though. Who knows...

I don't know what my point is. I am quite tired and hungover so I don't need a point today. It's OK. The point is to not think, not put oneself to effort, lay down a bit (a lot) and to survive until tommorow. Then all the other points can come back and invade and start troubling again. But not this day.

One such point (see how I'm linking my paragraphs, dear reader. Weep at my ingenuity!) is that I'M COMING BACK IN LESS THAN A MONTH. This is in capitals because I only just counted and it shcoked me a little. How time flashes by without one knowing.

Another point is linked to this point, in that I have NO idea what to do when I get back jobwise, and lifewise really. This, as I have mentioned to some of you lucky souls, is scaring me a bit. A lot. Yes, I have this vague notion of working for a charity or something and not getting holed up in some grad scheme that locks you down for life or whatever, but it's all very well being idealistic now but at the edge of the cliff it is not so easy. Don't trap me world. Please.

Ideal jobs?

1. I would quite like to own a quaint second-hand bookstore. It would have very little order and have huge piles everywhere of quite fantastic 1960s sci-fi ETC books and lo-fi indie would quietly meander away in the background without anyone really noticing. When I'm 28, a beautiful brunette Irish girl will walk in and we will fall in love and she will help me run the shop, along with my slightly camp assistant who will work there for no money despite the fact I repeatedly tell him to leave. But I don't want him to really. When I'm 32 I'll receive a letter from the council to inform me they are knocking it down to make way for a Tesco that is so big it negates the need for any shops in the whole city. I die by wrecking ball when I refuse to move.

2. I will learn to score goals like Steve Bull and offer my services to Wolves for free (well, basic upkeep maybe). I will score hundreds of goals but be a tragic hero because whatever I do we'll never get promoted. I will reject a move to Aston Villa and Coventry because I am loyal. One day we will play Chelsea in the cup and I will end Frank Lampard's career with a double footed slide challenge to the head (he won't die). For good measure, in my interview with Jamie Redknapp at full time, as he asks me how it feels to have lost, I will accidentally tear his mouth off. People will be shocked initially but eventually break out into applause, which will grow to a roar. This will be my greatest career achievement (personal). At 32 I'll get killed by Louise Redknapp, but no-one will know because she'll be a wily old fox. No, actually a fox, as she will have mastered Transformagation. It will be a Midlands Tragedy.

3. You people will get famous and drag me with you. I will die at 32 for drinking too much rum.

4. Be Virender Sehwag. I will never die.

I had more points but I've forgotten them. If anyone has some money and wants to help me run my book shop that'd be swell.

Or find me a nice job.

You won't be surprised to know nothing has happened with any of the pretty girls. We had a party last night with (you guessed it) lots of rum and at one point I discussed at length with my flatmate how I really liked (well, she was pretty) this new pretty girl who was there and we decided I had nothing to lose and I should at least talk to her, and anyway while all this was happening she started dancing in such a way I was actually a little scared to look at her let alone talk to her.

Phew!

Sheffield United Away

Just before I went to sleep last night I remembered to swap back to my English sim card. I put my phone on loud.

I went to sleep. At 3 AM I woke to a beep. It was the text, from Charles, as on every match evening. It simply said:

Blades 1-3 WOLVES! Madness.

That exclamation mark means everything. I don't expect you to understand.

I woke up again at 7 AM for work and it was still true.

I cannot describe this.

***

THEN (and marvel at my ability to span this post over two days, dear reader), I got home after two pitchers of Royal Challenge having watched England get thrashed by India AGAIN, and the television told of 3 people dead in Mumbai in attacks, more being held hostage.

Everyone was pretty silent. We changed the channel to lighten the mood then changed back 'cause that seemed silly. I went to bed.

I woke up and it was still true. 101 people had died.

This world...

Blackpool at home

I

I'm a little drunk. Tonight we went away. No. This weekend we went away. Tonight we got free food and drink at the most deluxe of 5* star hotels in Hyderabad, The Taj Krishna. Fundraising event.

Lush.

I cannot write this. Two people have asked me to update it. Surely this only adds to the bumfuckdom? The moment i GET requestsgybkjna./\x,ma\;lxmas;lxm/ then THat should be it. Over.

Nope.

I'm listening to Pulp - "Do You Remember The First Time." I can't remember the worst time.

OH MY GOD

So I guess you're wondering what happened right? (no). When they played Michael Kightly (no)? What Swiss Simon was doing (no)?

WELL Kightly got caught up in the England U21s so couldn't do the interview. I was quite upset but it was no-ones fault really. :'( OK I'm still upset. They might re-schedule.

AND I still don't know what Swiss Simon was doing but my shaving foam was horifically broken when I went into the bathroom after the below. Gauge from that what you will.

This post is shitshitshit.

Ok well so I went away (it really starts here) to the Ellora and Ajanta Caves. No doubt I will put some photos on facebook soon and you will all smile knowingly, as you will know, from this bumfuckdom, that I have been there. Oh clever souls!

I will not harp on about these places. They were quite beautiful, and possibly the best I have been to in India so far. If you come to India, go to them. But sometimes words and hyperbole can do nothing but deceive, albeit unintentionally, and I doubt even my photographs can do anything.

But there were a couple of things that "happened" on my trip. I was listening to The Festive Fifty 1992 on the train to Aurangabad, in the dark and staring at the stars, and quite unbenownst to me at number 40 came Ride - "Leave Them All Behind." This brought a great smile as it took me right back to the last time I'd unexpectedly heard it - Truck 2008 - cover by Maps - with a few of you wonderful people - and it made me quite nostalgic and happy. I miss The Barn, Sunday 20th July 2008 circa 20:00 very much. Come back to me. She never got it though, did she! LOL. Never would.

On the topic of 'she's' - the first (and third, for the record) pretty girl(s) were also on the trip with me. Keeping up? You may have thought my interest, albeit something, is really nothing serious at all, and you would be quite right. It is not like I am in love, or anything, and no doubt she still has a boyfriend. But pretty girl number one has reached a new level. She actually thinks like me about stuff, like things I get ever so frustrated about and can never ever EVER articulate so they rot and rot and rot and rot - anyway she tells me these things that I've been thinking and I'm like "Yeah, that's totally what I was thinking!" in complete awe at her articulateness. She is angry about it then (in a totally cute and pretty way) and then she is OK a bit after because she has articulated it. Whilst there's me letting things fester and infest the inside of me to create trouble. I cannot describe... no. It's almost not fair. I completely cannot describe it. She is the latent enemy of my festering. In another world I would tell her everything and she would solve everything and everything would be OK and I wouldn't have to piss you all off indefinitely.

But I am not in love with her. There is no flying saucer ride inside my head.

(good luck SB tonight. Do you have a new thread? Maybe. There are echoes in our one.)

OH WE WON BY THE WAY :dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Southampton Away

hello.

I want to go to sleep. Swiss Simon is in the bathroom where my shorts are that I want to wear to go to sleep. He's been in there for hours.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BATHROOM SWISS SIMON

I feel I have been quite patient. I checked my social network (die) and gmail (nothing) and DiS Community (die nothing). He is still there. Right. Now. What is he doing?

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BATHROOM SWISS SIMON

I don't want to think about what he is doing. But it's taking ages. Seriously. I don't think he's taking a shower because it's 1AM, you know. But I guess the sounds could be mixing with the rain. Yeah, it's raining again! It's winter! People have started wearing coats and jumpers and cardigans and turning fans off. All because it's 20 degrees not 30. I tell them...

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BATHROOM SWISS SIMON

I need the toilet too, by the way. Before you say, why don't you just sleep without those shorts. Well fuck you. I need the toilet as well. And the shorts.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BATHROOM SWISS SIMON

Perhaps he has climbed out of the window and is running around Adarsh Nagar naked. Perhaps he slipped on the floor, banged his head against the toilet and is now laying in a pool of his own blood. I once dehydrated one morning at UnI and collapsed next to the toilet. I woke in a pool of my own piss (my penis clearly hadn't thought to cease discharge despite my brain ceasing to do anything to help). No-one knew I think. Maybe that's what happened to Swiss Simon. It took me a while and a lot of tissue to clean up (mental note: never show this to S. or E. or any similiar individuals).

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BATHROOM SWISS SIMON

I'm listening to "Arrogance Is My Middle Name Said Will Davies Arrogantly." He's still in the bathroom. What The Fuck. My favourite songs at the moment are this song, giglio's whale rendered and strange signs of life or whatever they are called. Worryingly I love them all without drums. At least I have a part for Davies, I guess. Who cares. I just want my shorts. And the toilet.

We won again this weekend. We never win at St. Ma.... oh who gives a fuck.

GET THE FUCKING FUCKING HELL OUT OF THE BATHROOM SWISS SIMON

Tum

ti

tum.

He could be having a wank. That's what you'd have put in your list earlier, isn't it? Well it did cross my mind too, dear reader, albeit in a purely inquisitive non sexual sense, but it's surely been half an hour now so he must be having an almighty session let me tell you.

I hope he's not having a wank in my shorts.

I can hear the rain through the song.

Get out of the bathroom please swiss simon?

FFS

On Friday we had another party on our roof (I'm going to continue, for in reality I'm a bit scared of what I might find if I actually enquire into the status of Swiss Simon). It was really big and I had a big bottle of McDowell's rum, which is my favourite, before I ambled up the stairs. With (yet) another pretty girl, or perhaps woman, or perhaps girl, I was possibly more charming than usual (or she was more drunk than usual) and I think I got 1% closer to kissing her than the previous pretty girls. Success! But I didn't kiss her which is good probably really because she's a good friend and she's coming travelling with us next week. She ended up in someone elses mouth later on though.

How boring. It is all Swiss Simon's fault you have to read this drivel.

OMGOMGOMGOMGOGM

SWISSSIMONISOUTOFJUHHKTHETOIELT!!!

BYE

Burnley at home

31: Shot by Michael Kightly (Wolverhampton): on target
31: Goal scored by Michael Kightly (Wolverhampton)

Decimated into such lifeless text. Yet still I sit there for 90 minutes.

In other news, Michael Kightly Is Pretty Rad is being played on live radio to Michael Kightly on Monday the 17th November. My whole life is set up to this moment. I have never been so excited. I no longer look at girls. I look at Michael Kightly on the radio listening to our song and telling Daz Hale he'll come to our gig at the Rainbow on the 8th January. He's a closet fan of Mark E Smith's vocals. He'll bring along Jody Craddock. Jody will buy me a pint of cider and say "you must have missed this in India, mate." And I'll go "Yes Jody, I have, very much." And we will clink glasses and I will dribble cider down my chin because when I'm a bit nervous I sometimes miss my mouth. Basith and Emma are talking to Michael Kightly about Radiohead. He is wearing a 1950s vintage Honved replica top. "I wish I was a teenage armchair Honved supporter" he winks. I swoon.

Jody and I will discuss at length defending and I will go over his 3-2 winner at Ninian Park autumn '06, his wonder volley against Bradford and his Steven Gerrard-esque last minute equaliser against Norwich five times at least. "It was easy. Another pint?" OK! I will pretend to be interested in his art and commission him to do a painting of the band. It will be 6.5/10.

We'll play our twenty minute long set. Michael and Jody will stand at the side nodding appreciatively. We'll blast through Michael Kightly Is Pretty Rad at brakeneck speed and Simon will do his usual improv screaming in the Steve Bruce section, probably slagging off amateur football fanzines named after icons in a friendly pop at the man at the back with his Trojan Records sweatshirt. People will clap and our friends will scream to make us feel better.

When we've finished Michael Kightly and Jody Craddock will be gone. They'll have already made their apologies. We'll have forgotten to have taken photographs together. Because they were at the side none of our friend have any. We'll never see them again.

But thereafter I'll always read his praise of Jamie Redknapp's punditry in the match programme with the irony it deserves. When he says "Oh I like to listen to a bit of The Twang" the beauty of the sarcasm will ring true. And we'll never forget that really, truly, Michael Kightly Is Pretty Rad.

Ahem

On a day in the last week I realised most of my birthday money was gone because I set up a direct debit a year ago on the Shall We Set Ben On Fire website. After intial despair I decided to do something with it. So I made a fuckmyself SWSBOF, Ace Bushy Striptease and We Aeronauts *tribute* site that doesn't work properly because I cannot be bothered to find out why. No-one will look at it apart from you people and then you'll be sad you did because it will take 30 minutes to load, then not load properly. You'll have checked your networks four times by then and it will be a forgotten tab next to Drowned In Sound Community with a thread on being cool but uncool.*

It was meant to be a nice collage anyway. www.shallwesetbenonfire.co.uk

I must sound really negative! Well I shouldn't, it's been an ace weekend, albeit a weird one. I went to an amazing palace in Hyderabad and fell in love with a Princess from her black and white photographs. She's incredible. I also want an elephant as a chauffeur. OK! We had a big party on friday as well and I talked to a different pretty girl who I talk to sometimes and is a lot cooler than the other so I mostly probably didn't impress her with my random rum induced mumblings. Something nearly horrible happened on Thursday night that is at once comical and horrible and not really horrible just it was at the time.

*this is actually just a description of my last half an hour

"if I were a linesman. I would execute defenders who applauded my offsides."

Cardiff Away

I am listening to Aphex Twin - Twin Girl Twin Boy. It's amazing and beautiful. Almost as amazing as the last thirty seconds of the Grand Prix I just watched. My four South American companions were all up on their feet celebrating, shouting, laughing. I had my red shirt over my eyes, hiding. But somehow, suddenly, everything changed. Beautiful. I am not a popular figure in my flat right now. It was Karl Henry's last minute winner at Charlton, April '08. But not really. It is only motorsport. It is nothing.

I made a list of things to do today on the back of a brown birthday message from my mother. It went like this:

- buy food
- write back to E.
- email EVERYONE (music loud!)
- go to B. Library
- eat food
- maybe hair cut
- maybe buy t shirt

I bought bread and butter. I did not write or email anyone. I am a wanker. I went to the library and found it was expensive to join the library. And annual. I ate jam sandwiches for dinner and a chicken and egg puff for lunch. I didn't find the hairdresser. I tried on some T shirts. I had to take my red one off and look in a mirror.

I am SO THIN I nearly cried. Seriously when you see me again you'll weep and want to put me in a pram. I am bones. If you see me again. I'll be so thin I'll be like Kate Moss on that Family Guy episode; when I turn horizontal no-one will see me. I'll float away. No girl will ever sleep with me. They will be pierced by my bones and die. It's a good job that both you bands reading have got Terra and Tim, for I will barely manage half a set before I crumble and you have to put me back together.

I saw some photos today. Of people at home. They look like they've grown up. Like really, different, but in a complete time is going on still way. It scared me. Nobody will be in Brighton when I get back. I will sit at the Fiddlers each night alone while all of you watch Arsenal or Tottenham lose from expensive bars 'cause you're fucking cockneys now. I will read the strange magazines there like I do when I arrive early for happy hour and no-one else does. I might vow to join the Brighton Sea Swimming Club after being inspired by an article, like last time. Maybe I will move back to Birmingham at some point. But nothing will be the same. Ever, ever again.

Too much beer. Well done Lewis. Goodnight.