No, we're not in Gham.

Today I risked my life by going to Nottingham with Matt. I'd pretty much accepted the fact that I was going to be killed, or at the very least, shanked. But believe or not, I'm not writing this from "beyond the grave". I wasn't brutally murdered. I wasn't even mugged. In fact, the most threatening thing we encountered was a flock of low flying pigeons, which Matt bravely protected me from.

Obviously, I didn't just wake up one morning and think, "Oh, might go to Nottingham, y'know!" No. This had a similar purpose to mine and Vicky's trip to Manchester (read about it here). As such, our first stop was the University campus! I've never actually seen a university campus outside of OH SO REAL American sitcoms and films. In the cities I've visited (and, indeed, the one I live in) the university buildings and the dorm rooms have been scattered across the city carelessly, leaving poor students to trek half way across the city to go to different lecture hall places and sleep dorm thingies. Technical terms. Matt's brother, Andrew, who we got the train with (and who is better than Matt at "I spy"), kindly showed us around the campus area, helpfully pointing out important things like which halls the "RAH"s stayed in and where the best food was served. I imagine I would've been more impressed if the temperature in Nottingham hadn't been around 20 degrees colder than EVERYWHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD. As it was, we could've flocked to the Arctic for a summer break.

We scaled "Mount Doom", an infamous 'hill', that daunts many who try to cross it. Naturally, us Sheffielders were not afraid of a slight incline. Andrew left us after that, in search of his lunch, and Matt and I wandered towards the bus stop, threatening to push each other in to the lake we were walking beside. After watching two buses crawl past us, we finally got on the Indigo (Ahh!) bus to Broadmarsh. As the temperature increased, so did my appreciation of Little Nottingham Town. Sure, it wasn't as big as Manchester. No, it didn't have as many people bustling about. Yeah, there was the constant threat of being mugged. But it had it's own little quirks, none more fascinating than the ridiculous number of £1/99p shops that littered the Broadmarsh centre. Naturally, we went in them all.

We both found our desired lunching venues (Matt's Subway and my Pret). I even managed to have a coffee without spilling too much of it, although that was mostly thanks to Matt and his hands. We stood in Waterstones for a while, reading The Gruffalo. We visited the Victoria Centre to buy Vicky a present, from a shop whose tag line was "...All the things you didn't know existed!" I dragged Matt in to the bra section of Marks and Spencers, and he dragged me back out of it. We wandered past a stall selling bowls of fruit (most notably LEMONS) for £1. We did this twice, each time Matt pausing to seriously consider purchasing said fruit, until on the third, we actually did. Yeah. We bought a bowl of lemons. And what? After/Before/Meanwhile, Matt bought me a present that I obviously don't know about, and I bought him one that he obviously doesn't know about. We're good with secrets.

Basically, we aimlessly wandered around for hours, but it was FUN. Nottingham is even PLEASANT in parts! I know, I was as surprised as you. I could definitely handle living there during my student years, even if there isn't a Selfridges.

After a final trip to a pound type shop for Matt's bar of chocolate, we hunted down the train station. We dithered outside the ticket gates for a while, deciding whether to go for the train that left in 5 minutes, or staying for an unknown length of the time until the next one. We ended up settling for the first one - probably a good idea, seeing as it was pretty dark by then, and we'd already been lucky to escape being shanked for that long. Matt had a minor heart attack when he thought I'd lost my train ticket (I had to calmly explain that I hadn't lost it at all and it was just in one of many pockets), not that the train conductor man cared. We planned the baking of a lemon cake. Stole each other's phone. Willingly gave up our phones for lulz. Made far too many innuendo jokes based around Matt and his juicy lemons. Until, what could only have been 10 minutes later, the train driver was declaring we were in Sheffield and everyone needed to get the hell off his train. I paraphrased, but that was basically the gist of what he was saying.

Matt's mum came to pick us up and - after I made sure Matt's coat was securely zipped up - we skipped towards her. Literally. Alas, the bag that Matt was holding our juicy lemons in split, leaving him to scramble back for them in panic. I just stared after him in vague confusion. What else can you do when your lemons are rolling away from you at speed?

Lol.

Don't worry yourselves though, Matt managed to rescue 2 out of 3 escaped lemons, and we were left with 4 for our lemon cake. DISASTER AVERTED, PEOPLE.

Jasm x

Don't you make me Ap Chagi you

Our beloved reader, 

You may have noticed that recent posts haven’t exactly been written by us. We decided to share the joy, the delight, nay, the sheer honour of writing on our blog with our friends.  Both of them.

I hope that their high standards haven’t left you with any kind of expectations. In fact, the amateur style will have left you longing for the return of your treasured Vicky and Jasmine. Right? Right!

So, I was racking my brains for a topic that could possibly prove as enthralling as Scotland, or Matt’s irrational love of Nottingham. Obviously, this wasn’t hard, so I didn’t think for long.

I have decided, bloggie, to tell you all about Tae Kwon Do.

Yeah, that’s right. I do sport.
EXERCISE.

(Nearly) every Monday and Friday, ‘Els’ and I drag ourselves out of our respective houses. Our WARM homes. Our HAVENS of comfort. To ‘keep fit’.

We reluctantly change into our sexy doboks.
Look at the beauties:

Yeah, we look like that. 

Without the black belt.
Or masculinity.
Or the cool.

And head to the lesson.

Each one runs like this:

We line up in grade order, facing the backsides of the superior green and blue belts

-          We share a glance of reluctance  and wait for the warm up

-          We jog, do press ups, star jumps, kicks, SQUAT THRUSTS, and other such activities.

-          We share a look of distaste

-          We wander off with a kick pad, and jirugi and chagi to our hearts content.  (Technical terms, right there)

-          We practice our pattern (A kind of...  dance. For jocks.)

-          We partake in some kind of race and receive glares from the higher grades who take offence at our lack of... ability.

-          We do a ‘cool down’, the best part of which is the hip circles. SOME members of  the group tend to take these too seriously and are at risk of injuring those nearby. It’s actually quite surreal sometimes. The instructor starts telling us about competitions and whatnot, and you look up to see the whole class waving their arses around. Well, I find it funny.

We have so far achieved the (incredibly impressive) status of Yellow Belts. BUT THESE ARE NOT JUST YELLOW BELTS, friend. They have a GREEN STRIPE. A green stripe of fear, of terror, a green strip of POWWEEEER.

Just a whisper of this green stripe will bring dread to the hearts of even the bravest of men (OR WOMEN).

We couldn’t have managed this without the wise teachings of our instructor (A.K.A. Mr AMAZING).  It’s all worth it, just for him. When I grow up, I want to be Mr. Amazing.

Vicky OUT xxxxxxx 

The Crazy Foo's Let Me Near Their Blog >=]

(The abridged version...)

Um. Hey. I'm writing a post for you!! 'I' being Matt. The things you've heard about me in older posts ARE ALL LIES. I swear. Glad we've got that sorted. Now I have the horrible task of writing something Brilliant, Otherwise I will be in Overly deep trouble with the authors of this Blissful, Indeed Excellent blog – Sorry if I don't manage (which I won't). I'm never going to be allowed to write again ='|

Before I describe to you the wonderful events of my/your/everyone's weekend, I'd like to briefly depict for you the land in which I was born. In the midst of thick, lush forests, hides away the sleepy town of Nottingham, where rainbows paint the sky with their vivid spectra and where old people don't need helping across the road because they ride unicorns. Everyone is happy there, and it's so pleasant you can walk about at night without having to fear one iota for your safety. So go there, next time you have the chance, visit subway, ride unicorns, look at rainbows.

Oops... back to the point of this post! On Saturday I attended a party celebrating Chris Davenport's, long since passed, seventeenth birthday (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHRIS!). I say party, it was more of a humble gathering – the closest thing we nerds get to a party, but excellent fun it was nevertheless!

Of course, the evening commenced with the, now to be, customary game of “pass the parcel”. The prizes were wonderfully zany (first recorded use of that word in over 10 years), including pasta, a bagel, a chocolate bunny and some snails (REAL SNAILS). Unfortunately, it somehow managed to turn out that half the people present (including Chris) knew half the prizes, but it went well anyway, people had fun and I now own baked beans. No joke, baked beans, I'm a lucky person! What could be better?

By six we were summoned to the table, where we munched on pizza and where we were given a lesson in directions from our host, who informed us the direction of “front” and that left and right were in fact the opposite way round to the way in which we all thought they were. All this was followed by cake (in the articulate shape of an igloo (congratulations once again to the Davenport's for acquiring yet another excellent cake)) and jelly (wibble, wobble, wibble, wobble jelly on/in a plate/bowl), the latter of which I proceeded to fling across the table. As you do.

I believe (I don't quite remember, you know how it is after a party) we then concluded the raving by watching Mr and Mrs Smith. It was a completely believable and exciting spy film which involved... nah, I won't bore you with the details, just remember it turns out Bruce Willis was a ghost all along. Three people giggled the whole way through (apparently something to do with the way I was sitting? I'm sure they were just being silly) and Timmy talked through the first few minutes, however these events may have added more to the experience than they took away. LOL jk, I enjoyed the film really, Chris!! (And no I did not jump at any scenes of people getting shot, or cringe at any semi-nudity scenes – and I never have!! Well... anyway.)

Er.. think that's probably all there is to tell.. Sufficiently bored now? I know.. I know.. at least you managed to last this long! Perhaps Vicky and Jasmine will start blogging properly now, 'cause they write much better posts, right? RIGHT? At least I tried. And at least I haven't re-concluded or anything.

So bye bloggies! 'fraid there's no x's from me, don't want to give you my germs. Yeah.. that's exactly it. Yeah.

Oh! YEAH! SUNDAY. Everyone loves Sunday. Sorry I forgot you, Sunday. Sorry the torture isn't over, bloggies! Went to town, went to Caffee Nero, three quarters of us had coffee, Vicky and Jasmine bought me some lovely laces for my shoes, because they stretched my last laces (grr!!!), went to Marks and Spencer (still not actually sure why), only to be kicked out, went to WHSmith where we had a good look at an A-Z of NOTTINGHAM and where Vicky had a look at a pregnancy book (for the second time, still not actually sure why) and finally got the bus back home, on which the driver undercharged me AGAIN. So noish, yet so annoying.

Right.

You can go now.

Really.

It's over.

It's all good.

BYE.

=[

Scotland the Brave

Ach, and a hoot-mon to you. I'm here today to talk to you about a topic very close to my heart.

MY RIBS. HA HA HA.

Also, Scotland.

Now, very much like my ribs, Scotland is located above England. It sometimes gets a bad press, just like my ribs. It's full of drunk teenagers and deep fried Mars Bars, just like my ribs. IT'S LIKE MY RIBS.

Scotland was actually invented in the Victorian era to give the poor masses in London something to look down upon. When they were in their 400 in a bed houses, catching cholera like the plague, they could look up North and go 'At least we aren't in Aberdeen'.

           

In fact, when building Scotland, they made sure to add only the crappiest weather and a large amount of habits and cultural quirks that were designed for the sole purpose of being made fun of. PHUN PHACT: This design was also reused for Northern Ireland and Wales.

Let's get some audience participation going here. What do you, the reader, imagine when you think about Scotland?

Do you think of the lone bagpiper?

The majestic musician, standing on a street corner, playing the same GODDAMN TUNE FOR ABOUT HALF AN HOUR WITHOUT PAUSING. WHO IS ACTUALLY LISTENING TO YOU,  SERIOUSLY? YOUR 'FANS'? NOT LIKELY. STOP IT.

Or how about the drunk?

Not much else needs to be said about the drunk. He's drunk. There's not going to be a dance routine or anything. OH WAIT: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AB_uJwwNEtw

You might even think of beautiful countryside, and foreboding cliff faces, breaking out into a violent and overpowering sea.

But only an idiot would believe that's what Scotland's really like. Imagine this picture, but seen through a haze of fog and crisp packets. Also, that blue sky? Tells you it's not actually Scotland.

Above is an artist's impression of the real Scotland.

Funnily enough, I came from Scotland. You couldn't tell nowadays, though. Not after losing my thick ginger beard and putting the kilt in the cupboard. However, I have kept some of the old Scottish traits in me. I never wash, I can't count to ten, and I have a true fear of spending money. And sunlight. Scared of sunlight.

If any of you sun-people want to know what Scotland's really about, you need to go there. And I know about the problem with that. The problem is that anyone with any sense would never consider going there. QED, you're not going to go there.

This is one of the many reasons Scotland has descended into chaos. Yeah. Didn't hear about that on the BBC news, did you? While you drink your 'tea' and wear your 'trousers'. Did you English scum even know we've overthrown our police force? Taken to the streets in naught but a kilt and a broken beer glass? Did you know we've run out of Mars Bars to fry?

Of course not. Because anyone with any sense would never head North. That was lies madness. That way lies Scotland.

Tom McIlroy. (Proper Scottish.)

Yes. Didn't mention haggis once.

Rescueth the fair princess!

Eleanor was complaining at me because she was only mentioned very briefly in the last post that I did. I told her that I would dedicate my entire post to her on Monday, SO HERE WE GO.

Gather round, children, gather round.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess called Eleanor. She lived in a small castle called 006, in the valley of Maths Corridor and the land of Tapton. Although Eleanor was perfectly lovely (most of the time), she never had any visitors at 006. This was because Eleanor's castle was guarded by an evil serpent called Kirke! Kirke kept Eleanor prisoner in 006 and forced her to do FRACTIONS and SURDS. Everyone around was terrified of Kirke, who would catch anyone who dared try to enter 006 and throw homework at them. So, for years and years, Eleanor suffered under the vicious rule of Kirke without a single mathsbuddy to save her. SAD FACE.

One day, a young boy named McTimmy heard Eleanor's cries of dismay from his village, "Scotland", that was nearby. McTimmy, instantly struck with love and adoration for the screaming princess, rushed down to the village shop, where he bought a slightly bent ruler (he couldn't find the straight ones) and a shiny helmet (to protect his famous fringe). His friends and family warned him that it was a lost cause, the Kirke was just too strong! But McTimmy straightened down his blouse and stood tall. "No!" he cried, "I'll save Princess Eleanor!"

After hours of trekking through the swamps and lakes that surrounded 006, McTimmy finally reached the huge wooden door that was the entrance to the castle. "PRINCESS!" he screeched, beckoning to his beloved. "Princess, I have come to save you! Fling open your doors and I will proceed to pet you in inappropriate ways in front of all my friends!!"

Hearing this, Eleanor peered out of the window to her tower. "Be careful, noble knight! Kirke will hear you!" she shouted down to McTimmy. "Your only hope is to scale my tower before she sees you."

McTimmy eyed the tower nervously. His precious fringe would be safe thanks to his new helmet, but what if his blouse got torn?! Was the exotic maiden in the tower really worth the risk?

"Sorry, Princess." McTimmy yelled, shrugging. "Priorities, you know." He permitted her a quick wave, then wandered back to "Scotland", singing songs of multiplication and intact blouses.

THE END


Love you, bloggies
Jasm xxx

Don’t listen to the lies she tells you.

Bloggies,
I DO love you. I do. Sorry about yesterday! You see, I was, er... I had to... I forgot.
But let me make that up to you.

BY TELLING YOU ABOUT REVISION
That’s right. The last month or so of my life has been plagued by the impending doom of exams. I’ve been confined to my room, metaphorically TIED to my chair, pouring over 100s, 1000s, maybe MILLIONS of pages of work. All I really seem to do is copy that work out, and double the amount of notes I have. Then, the night before the exam, I sit staring at the 5 copies of the work I now have and wonder what I’ve done with my life.

Thankfully, I’ve already got 4/5 exams done.  Including the one I was most worried about- GENERAL STUDIES, by far the most important and worthwhile of the 6AS levels I’m taking. (Lol, jk)

Today, I have so far spent FIVE hours cramming for my final exam. I spent much of the time revising ‘forgetting’. It’s sad and ironic that I can’t remember most of the theories...

Anyway,
Life’s not about WORK.

Christmas was good. Jasmine bought me Lotso and he smells of strawberries and I love him.
We broke our car, I racked up a £103 phone bill in 3 days, and the other day I dropped my iPhone in a glass of water. Don’t even ask how.
That’s about it.

Vicky xxxxxxx <Because I love you.

P.s. Someone please buy Jasmine some toasted almond nail varnish. 

PSSSST

Vicky doesn't love you because she MISSED HER DAY.


That is all.

Jasm

R.I.P. BLOGGIES

No, we're not dead. Yes, we're sorry.

I could lie and say that we chose to have a Christmas break and that this was all planned. Or that we have millions of exams that desperately needed revising for (slightly more true for Vicky than for myself) and there wasn't even a spare second in which to write a short post. Or even that nothing of any interest has happened in the last few weeks that needed documenting.

I'd be lying.

We simply haven't put in enough effort to write to you, dearest bloggies (I'm officially calling you that now), and for this I can't apologise enough! Admittedly, we both started writing posts to warm your hearts with delight, but neither of these were ever finished. And you were left waiting. In the cold.

Ok, I'm exaggerating. Only Matt seemed to be very upset at our lack of posts and even he has given up complaining to us now. I'm sure you survived without your shot of Jacky. I mean, you survived, right?

HELLOOO?

HELLO?

Hello?

lo...?

Oh :C

Jasm xx

P.S. Went to see TRON (The Legacy) last night with NAR. There were gays and pedophiles. We liked the blue shiny disk the best.

That's all you need to know.



Love you, bloggies...