HELLO BLOG. I remember you.

Sorry about the lack of posts. I’ve been...

So. 
How are you all?

This week was our half term HOLIDAAAY, and as such much joviality was had.

Many things happened! Most of them uninteresting. HOWEVER, yesterday we made flapjack. It came out as something between a solid and a liquid and we ate it with spoons. The problem was Matt’s carelessness with the oats. Still, It was lovely.

Nevertheless, the sheer amount of golden syrup we put in the flapjack paste left me and Jasmine ... overexcited. We proceeded to dress up and dance to “We no speak Americano” . Our dance moves were carefully synchronised. Imagine it. Imagine it right now.

Then we thought it would be a good idea to try out Omegle video calling. IT WAS, of course. We met some lovely, completely uncreepy people.

For example, this guy who was smoking and looking at us. His friend then appeared next to him SHIRTLESS.
<Disconnect>
Chavs
<Disconnect>
“Hey sexy girls”
<Disconnect>
Partially dressed men. Being BORING.
<Disconnect>
Someone who wanted to know the colour of our bras for a (obviously legit) survey. We offered to tell them. They needed proof.
<Disconnect>
VERY BAD THINGS WE DIDN’T WANT TO SEE
<Disconnect>

At this point Jasmine decided to go home.  My dad gave her a lift and they talked about the future of media. Apparently it’s looking good.

On Tuesday, I went to LANDAN with my mother and auntie. My lovely auntie bought me a Chlamydia microbe. It’s green and generally adorable. I like to try and give it to people while my boyfriend’s away. They tend not to want it...

We also visited the Tate Modern. After looking in a couple of rooms I’d decided that modern art was a complete waste of space, and refused to pay the suggested donation of £3 on the way out. I felt guilty for the rest of the day.

Maybe I’ll pay £6 next time I go there.
LOL, jk.
That won’t be happening.

Vicky xxxxxxxxxxxx

10 things that you probably don't care about!

I figured that in our little dream world, a few of the people who read this blog probably wouldn't know all that much about me and Vicky. In reality this isn't true because everyone who reads this is likely to be one of our friends. And even some of those don't check it very regularly (CoughLUDLOWCough). I'm going to go with the first scenario and assume that we have more than (approx.) 5 regular readers.

SO, for all of you strangers out there, here is a list of 10 things (I can't promise that they'll be interesting) about my life! YAY.

1. I have 408 songs on my iPod, 1 music video, 1 film trailer, 1 film and 15 podcasts. The podcasts are mostly French and Polish language type things. I watched the French ones because I wanted to show some sort of enthusiasm towards the language that I foolishly picked to do at GCSE (a choice that I regretted every Tuesday morning for two years). The Polish ones because I was planning on going to Poland for the summer with my friend. It never happened. The podcasts haven't been touched since.

2. I have 124 books on my bookshelf. Naturally, said bookshelf is one of my most prized possessions. Although it probably comes second to my TEDDY BEAR, Magic. He's lovely. I might show you a photo of him one day.

3. I wrote a big paragraph here about my OCD tendencies, until I realised that it made me sound weird. I am weird, but there's no need to advertise the fact to the world.

4. Celery is the most disgusting thing ever. SPEAKING OF VEGETABLES. If I were a vegetable, I would be sweetcorn. Only tinned sweetcorn, obv. None of that frozen rubbish.

4.5 I wasn't sure whether that should've been, "If I was a..." or, "If I were a..." Let's be honest though, you don't know the difference either, so it's not like it matters.

5. We did a "self esteem" test in Psychology. I'm a four. FOUR.
What's that? You want to take the test too?! Feel free: http://www.more-selfesteem.com/test.htm

6. We saw a nun in school. A real life nun. She was wearing a grey nun dress. With a nun hat. And nun bling.

7. I have two and a half sides of A4 to fill, explaining why Hamlet is a quintessential tragic hero. This isn't something that I look forward to.

8. I wrote 1-7 five days ago.

8.5 I'm sorry for that.

8.75 Matt was helping me when I started to write this, but now he isn't here and it's hard to think of mildly interesting things about my life without his input. If it goes downhill from here, BLAME MATT.

9. It's been 7 minutes since I wrote 8.75 because Timmy texted me saying LOL producing things. Ah, that Timmeh and his jokes!

10. Texted isn't a word according to Google Chrome. And no, that doesn't mean Firefox is better, Chrome haters. Besides, you're not so different from us. I think us Chromers and you Firey Foxes should get together some time and bond over how mind-numbingly slow IE is. What do you say? ;)

Affectionate snuggles to you, bloggies.
Jas x

Why York is better than Nottingchester

Yesterday, Christopher and I spent the day in the charming York.  Unlike trips to Manchester and Nottingham, there was a real purpose to this visit. We didn’t go just to wander around closed University buildings, or assess the city on whether or not it had a Pret a Manger (By the way, IT DID). No, no.  We went with the simple intent of visiting the NATIONAL RAILWAY MUSEUM.

It was with this in mind that I gleefully awoke at SEVEN THIRTY on a Saturday morning to get ready.  An hour or so later, we were at the train station to collect our tickets. We queued for the machines, went to the only one that wasn’t for collecting tickets, re-queued, and finally got them. And as if the train station hadn’t failed us enough already, we had to wait SEVEN minutes because our train was delayed. I’m seriously considering writing a strongly worded letter.

Nevertheless, we finally managed to leave our rainy hometown and reach the relative sunshine of YORK. We spent the first half of the day preparing ourselves for the RAILWAY MUSEUM with some hardcore shopping. Too much time spent there and we would have become overexcited.

Our first stop was the adorable Cath Kidson shop, where Chris looked at all the floral prints with delight. I then dragged him into H & M where he utterly refused to try on a fetching red chequered shirt. We spent a good ten minutes in there trying to work out whether we were actually viewing a oversized baby suit with hearts on, like we thought we were.

We were on our way to Topshop when we found a much more amazing store selling everything you could possibly want. I spent a while considering a game called “Who’s naked?” , a clotheless version of who’s who, while Chris was eying up some Racing Royals. We left that shop with joyful hearts and a 2 foot inflatable afro.

 

Convinced as we were that nothing could beat that, we actually came across a shop called MANWORLD or something, which I was forced into. As it happens, I’m pretty sure I enjoyed Manworld more than my boyfriend. It was full of wonders! From sonic screwdrivers to a boob radio. Yeah. A boob radio.

Following in Jasmine’s footsteps, I also decided to introduce him to the Marks and Spencers bra section. He followed me awkwardly for maybe 2 minutes, before cowering to the relative safety of the old ladies clothes. I think that says a lot.

We eventually dragged ourselves away from the marvels of York city centre to go to the NATIONAL RAILWAY MUSEUM. As you may have gathered, I was kind of looking forward to this. AND I WASN’T DISAPPOINTED.  We happily wandered, nay, gleefully SKIPPED around a giant room of trains. I was in my element. We sat on a bit of a bullet train, GAPED at a model railway, and even constructed our own train out of wooden blocks designed for children to use. We were both chuffed with this achievement.

We even saw a stuffed dog. Seriously, this place had everything.

Eventually, it was time to tear ourselves away from York and catch our train home. If it wasn’t for the prospect of going on a train, this would have been heartbreaking. Quite like trains, you see...

Forever yours,
Vicky xx

"Nick Clegg sounds like dickhead"

Sorry, I didn't post yesterday, BUT THERE WERE IMPORTANT THINGS TO TALK ABOUT TONIGHT.

So, today was quite an exciting day of school. I got my Eng Lang coursework back, which I was surprisingly pleased with. We decided to go in to Crosspool at lunch for a change. My psychology teacher brought in cake for us! All in all, a very good day.

Oh yeah, and Deputy PM Nick Clegg came in for a chat.

As you do.

I was oddly excited about seeing Nick Clegg. Odd because I see him constantly on the news and I doubted he was any different in real life. But also odd because I have very negative feelings towards the right honourable Clegg, as did almost everyone else there! But that just made it more fun. We can all hate him together <3

A good 250 of us squeezed in to the hall in anticipation. We reshuffled places a few times. Nosey teachers poured in. News reporters stood importantly at the front. Finally Cleggy did arrive, making a very anti-climatic entrance. He strolled in. We watched him silently. The teachers looked around nervously. Someone started clapping apprehensively. A few people copied. Me and Eleanor shared amused glances. Not the heroes welcome he had imagined from our fairly middle class school, methinks.

He started by rattling off an insignificant speech about how if we said anything bad about him, it was only because we didn't know what we were talking about. Let's face it, no one was listening to that bit. I was far too excited at the prospect of BROGAN asking him a question. Out spoken, highly opinionated BROGAN! Although Brogan did get his chance to speak, unfortunately it was over-shadowed by Josh Something's earlier question which received loud applause and a smirk from Mr Wright! This was the same question that seems to have been broadcast across the (regional) news, but it deserved it. And the cheers. And the smirk.

Meanwhile, Mr Clegg's answers left a lot to be desired. He was fairly predictable at times, using the expected, "They started it, it's THEIR FAULT" excuse. Never gets old. LOL jk, give it up, Cleggy. I was even prepared for the patronisation that we were addressed with, and the number of times that he had to repeat points to make it clear for us little kids, who obviously know nothing about politics. I wasn't, however, expecting his "chippy" tone. It was genuinely funny when he told a boy at the front to "DO THE MATHS" and  everyone gasped in unison. Or when he kept on telling people off  for not letting him answer (although I only ever heard one person interrupt him). But however much amusement this caused me, I couldn't help thinking that this probably wasn't the best way to address his constituents, you know, his future voters. Because, let's face it, he wouldn't shout back at a 60 year old woman if she asked him a question on banking. It's not nice. In fact, it's downright rude.

So, Mr Clegg, you may have answered your questions with an averagely impressing competence, but the answers don't even matter if you're going to be mean about it! >:|   <-- Grumpy face.

Jasm x

Lay a little egg for me...

Before sitting down to write this post, I had to remove a certain present from my chair. A present which I had hurriedly thrown there this morning, in a frantic effort to remove it from my school bag. I could already imagine the embarrassment of seeing it roll across the floor as I knocked the contents over. Or  the sheer humiliation of reaching inside for my pencil case, only to instead grab on to its elasticy flesh and place it on my desk.

However, I want to make it very clear to Matt and Jasmine that I love my rubber chicken very much.  I couldn’t possibly think of a better gift, and I’ll be eternally grateful.

I was sitting on the (exclusively sixth form) balcony yesterday, innocently discussing my plans for the weekend, when a bulging yellow plastic bag was waved in front of my face. I quickly grabbed it, eager to see what it was. Needless to say, as soon as I saw its rubber beak, and beautiful rubber wings, my heart filled with delight.   

Me and my friends, a group of 16 and 17 year olds, spent the next quarter of an hour gleefully throwing this rubber chicken around in a circle. Even more hilarity ensued when we realised that squeezing the chicken made it ‘lay an egg’.  Everyone was happy, the sun was shining, that is, until certain members of the group decided to ruin it all for everyone. Firstly, MATTHEW decided to inform me that the chicken couldn’t be name Brian because it laid an egg, and was therefore a girl. This comment was ignored.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, Timmy decided to kidnap the lovely Brian, and throw him at Danny, who hit him with a ring binder.  It was a sick, twisted game.
I immediately picked my Brian from the floor, brushed the debris off him, and stuffed him into the safety of my bag.

Where I probably should have left him...

However, such a proud new chicken owner was I, that I decided to show my friend in Psychology. She was so impressed that she demanded to squeeze Brian herself. Soon, my whole row was in awe of him. Sensing there was some amazing spectacle to be seen, my Psychology teacher walked over, and insisted on seeing it herself. I’m pretty sure I turned a bright shade of red as I slowly placed my rubber chicken on the desk... 

Vicky xxxxxxxxxx