Poetry is Manly.

Today was Wednesday here in the UK - and, as such, nothing really happened. However, because I am a true man, armed with nothing but my manly credentials - I am going to attempt (and fail horribly) to write today's blog in the style of a poem.

Today started like any other,

I combed my now non-existent hair whilst being laughed at by my mother,

It took me just over twenty minutes to walk to school,

with my lack of hair removing the last of my "cool".

I only had one lesson which was just under an hour-and-a-half,

and decided to show "Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus" which attracted a solitary laugh,

It was soon after this I got the green-light to teach,

to the year 7's, film and media - I will now preach.

As one-ten rolled around it was time to leave for lunch,

and I headed for the shops with my usual bunch,

and now I'm at home with a sore throat,

serves me right for going out in the cold without a coat.

Check back tomorrow to find out what happens at college,

I will write a new blog to boast my new knowledge.

Until then I bid you goodbye my Friend,

You'll be glad to hear this poems at its end.

Peace.

PS. I think I have a cold. You'd best wash your hands after reading the blog today. I wouldn't want you to catch my illness.

Feeling Like a Shaved Bowling Ball.

After a wonderfully uneventful day at school - I headed off to my local town center in order to have my hair "styled" - as, of course, that's what all men do after a long hard day.

So - Me and my mop-like hair sat there, waiting for someone to come along and attempt to hack away at what could have easily been used to insulate the family home providing lower fuel costs for years to come. Sure enough, after a short wait standing awkwardly in the corner whilst all the more fashionable people sat on sofas, listening to the latest in cool-people music, reading their cool-people magazines - a guy came over, introduced himself - and took me to the "consultation chair".

The second I heard "consultation chair" - the idea of going to the doctors sprang into my mind - and I immediately thought I had walked into the wrong place, and was about to get the surprise of my life as he grinned, and slowly removed a pack of swabs from his pocket whilst applying a pair of rubber gloves. Luckily, all it was was a chair in front of a big mirror where you sit for five minutes whilst the guy mocks your poor hairstyle, and lists a seemingly endless list of things he wants to do to it (most of which was legal).

Before I could say "I'm homesick and I want to go home" - I found my head forced into what looked exactly like a male urinal from a local restaurant - but, to my great relief, turned out to be one of those oddly-shaped sinks they use to wash your filthy, commoner hair before they have to cut it with their higher-order, finely-crafted hands.

The next stylistic step in my attempted stroll down the fashionable hair catwalk was to sit in another chair, directly by the shop window so that people commuting in the local area could look in, and smirk at me with their manly credentials as I sat there with my hair soaking wet, all alone. Just as I thought that I was no longer loved, and was getting ready to leave - for the third time in one month, I though I was going to die. In the reflection in the mirror, I saw a guy walk towards me holding a pair of scissors. If you live in a town anything like mine - If someone you don't know walks at you with a pair of scissors - you turn around, square up to them, look them straight in the eyes - then drop to your knees begging for mercy whilst you wave your wallet above your head. It the clicked that I had paid him to cut my hair - which he proceeded to do.

At the end, I put my glasses back on to look in the mirror - and was surprised by the total stranger looking back at me. Twenty-three seconds later, it became apparent that I was looking in the wrong part of the mirror - and that "stranger" wasn't me - but the sixty-four year old lady sitting behind me having a blue rinse. As I re tuned my eyes on the mirror to look at myself, I noticed the one mistake the guy had made. I had said "I would like my hair to remain quite long" - he, however, must of heard "Hello. I would like you to cut a silly amount of my hair off so that even bald men chuckle at me as they drive past in there 2005 reg Nissan Almera's." So, overall, mission fail.

I really hope my hair grows to a good length again soon - It doesn't look good at the moment, So I refuse to talk to it until it does what I want and resume a better, longer length.

Anyway, I am about to become a film teacher for twelve to fourteen-year-old students! Tomorrow, I have to start planning lessons. Find out how that turns out Wednesday.

Peace.

P.S. Today, I decided to buy my first bag of pistachio nuts. They are a healthy food that tastes good at a low price. I would recommend them unless you are allergic to nuts and so are prone to anaphylactic shock.

Stomp the Yard.

I couldn't wait for today to begin. Today, you see, we were due to attend a "creative industries workshop" day oddly set at a local dockyard.

There I was - cola in one hand, inspiration in the other. I waited for the bus to pull up in order to start our epic journey which became very interesting very quickly.

After the mad panic was over to secure the back seat of the bus for myself, as that is where all the cool kids sit - I secured myself to my newly-claimed seat, which was stained with 10 years of service to an all-boys grammar school. Moments later, the bus lurched to life - but we didn't even reach the end of the drive before the bus following us in convoy used Team America's secret signal to stop us as if we were about to die.

Little did we know - we were. And if you remember correctly, I already died once on Friday - I'm not doing it twice in one month. Reason for our close brush with death? Our exhaust pipe had pretty much fallen off, and had drawn an artistic black line down a good length of the drive. With that, the driver expertly captained the bus back up the drive in reverse whilst the students sat silently - terrified that the whole bus could collapse at any given second. Fortunately, the expert staff found and resolved the problem (by duct taping the exhaust back to the bus which is in no way a health and safety breach) before our journey set sail to the promised land once again.

However, as the day started - It was obvious I had made a terrible mistake. My mistake? I shouldn't of woken up that morning - my own, twisted dream world would have been a far safer place.

Instead of learning the things I thought I'd learn - like camera operations, or film production - I was taught (and I use the word "taught" very loosely) to "street dance". Now, you've probably never met me Mr. Forty-year-old-stalker-from-Holland, but let me tell you something. There is a reason you don't see camera operators dance - it's because we can't.

In front of us stood a good looking young lady in her mid-twenty's who was able to pull of the various "street" moves with a touch of class - and there we were. A group of teenage media students, wobbling alot on the spot - looking about as "gangster" as a double bill of "Songs of praise". After 'Pop locking' for an hour and a bit, it was time to part company with our newly-met dance teacher. She smiled when we left. I can't blame her. I smiled too. I'll save my dancing for embarrassing my limited number of friends at nightclubs when those places no longer terrify me with there loud music, flashy lights - and "fashion sense".

Tomorrow, however, I will attempt to get a new hair style. I'd say I'm optimistic, but, my hair is good at one thing. Looking sucky. Check tomorrows post to find out what happens in my incredibly manly hair styling session-type-thing!

Peace.

PS. We also heard a band play some music today. They were very good. Mind you, that is in my opinion. You might not like them.

Now I can legally drive you round the bend.

As always, I promise not to lie in my blogs. So - I warn you now - I am very tired, and am prone to explaining things in my own, marvelous, sleep-deprived way. So let's get started.

Today, I had a driving test - and then I died.

There I was - sitting in a no-names-mentioned driving school car of which an anagram would be "SBM" - awaiting my examiner to come out an examine me to see whether I would pass the exam which examined my ability to drive. As he stepped into the vehicle, and asked me "Are you nervous" - I was very tempted to say "Yes, but don't worry -I'll pass or die trying", and then lock the doors - but decided not to as I thought that at least one person inside the one point five tonne chunk of metal I was about to drive at forty-two miles per hour should be compos mentis, and not busy praying to as many Gods as they could think of to ensure that when we hit the brick wall that "just came out of nowhere" they had a reservation in whichever place looked the nicest.

Fortunately, I am a atheist - and so was more than happy to pay attention to the road, and not make the same mistakes I made taking my test last time. Hell, at no point in the "Highway Code" does it say "Hitting old ladies and / or children is not a generally good idea" - trust me - I checked! Still - turns out that what I call "population control" the courts call "Manslaughter" - which meant that I didn't quite pass first time. However, this time I did pass! Huzzah!

But, as that guy in "Spiderman" once said - "With great power comes great responsibility". In this case - it was trying to get insurance. Now, I did my research - and a couple of companies did get back to me with quotes. When I announced that I was a seventeen year old male from a urbanised area, they simply mailed me a bucket with a note that said "Hey scumbag, here's a bucket. Fill it with gold, money, and the blood of 100 virgins, and we will grant you your car". However, after completely emptying the local nursery - I was unable to meet the 100 target, and so have decided to put getting my own car on hiatus until after I leave uni.

Finally, I said I died. That's because one of my friends decided that she would have a birthday. She doesn't ask for one often (She only really asks once a year) - so I decided that I would play along. However, when the invite arrived here at mission control / the bat cave / my bedroom - my eyes were drawn to two things. 1. She had written it on silver card. How very cool. I wish I had silver card. 2. I had to dress as if I were dead. I didn't have much time to come up with a plan - but I decided death wasn't enough - and went for full on "Gore".

By "Gore", I mean Lesley Gore. My death involved a five second loop from Lesley Gore's song "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows". Sure enough, after just 0.2 listens, the last rice-grain of sanity in the curry that is my mind was ripped from me, sending me into a death-like trance which worked perfectly given the aim of the event.

Anyway, my blog is weekday only folks - So I will see you lovely people Monday! I'll Miss you! Will you miss me?

Peace.

PS. I have work tomorrow. I hope the weather is nice. The sun makes me happy when I can bask in its glow behind my till.

Access Denied.

...And in the left corner - weighing in at 120 pounds - it's me!

Today was 'day one' at the college - and it almost went without a hitch. Almost. Firstly, using my charming good looks and charisma (or lack thereof) - I was able to excuse myself from lesson a little early to go and get changed so I wasn't walking around the college campus in a suit. I headed down the long empty corridor with my clothes in hand. Remembering the odds of the girl's hockey team catching me getting changed there immediately removed the option of stopping - instead, I picked the nearest toilet.

Firstly, I'm 6'1'' - and so not the smallest of people to walk the planet. Getting changed in a cubicle which was about 4 foot by 4 foot in terms of floor space (without factoring in the annoying toilet that seemed to get in the way of my mission) turned out to be a slow, painful experience. Sure enough, every time I hit my elbow, arm, foot or leg against a part of the cubicle - I let out a short grunt of pain. Unfortunately, the other "guests" of the toilet didn't know that the only thing I was doing was getting changed - and so may have felt slightly unnerved to hear a teenager make a series of grunting noises in a locked toilet cubicle. By far, however, the worst part was when I removed my shoes - and placed my socked foot on the floor. I was greeted with a very sticky texture - which to this very moment I dare not recall as I do not want to know what it was. Ever.

Getting into the college was a walk in the park. Everything was fine. Our teacher was waiting for us by the main entrance, which to my great relief removed the odds of getting lost and ending up resorting to eating my own work books, and cannibalism as hunger and insanity set in. Now, security in this day and age is very important - so I understood why my old student ID badge was replaced with a new one that unlocked doors to the various places I was meant to access. However, this new system did cause the only disadvantage in today's journeys.

About two hours into lecture, my bladder informed me it was time to go to the loo. Immediately. I had a rough idea of where the loos were - and it was also to be my first opportunity to use my new ID badge to open the doors which led to toilets. As I headed out of the lecture room, it became apparent that time was running out - which lead to a very brisk walk down a packed corridor, which led to all manner of funny looks. So there I was, in front of two big locked doors. I delved my hand into my pocket to grab my wallet, and ID badge - and waved the aforementioned badge frantically in front of the box-thing on the wall. Nothing happened. I knew that if that door didn't open in the next 10 seconds, I would have no choice but to leave the janitor a surprise in his bucket. Just when I was about to give up, I flipped my ID badge over - and to my astonishment, I was using last years badge! With the speed of a hypothetical bullet being hypothetically fired from a metaphorical gun - I removed my wallet again, found the correct card - and felt comforted by the satisfying "click" the door made as it unlocked. From then on, all was well.

In addition, I am currently as nervous as a solider about to jump out a burning plane at 20,000ft who has forgotten to pack his parachute. Reason? Well, Number one - those men down my road look mighty shifty. Number two - I have my driving test tomorrow.

Read tomorrow's post to find out how I do!
Peace.

PS. The college has places you can buy coffee. I smile upon this. Coffee is the staple of modern society.

This item has been flagged as irrelevant.

Hey. I'm 17, single, broke - and a media student. My life is awesome.
If you are reading this, you are: (A) Very bored. (B) Awaiting the tales of my life, and my general antagonism.

This blog will follow me for a few years, even though no one will read it. Let's face it - making a blog is far less girly than writing a diary - and my "manly" credentials are pretty much non-existent as my life revolves around the production of film.

Lets get this party started...

Today, as always, I attended my sixth form in my quest for knowledge - and naturally did all the 'right' things. I worked very hard on my documentary which I will talk about another day, continued development on my A2 film project (Which will be a noir - because the 1940's are cool), and made a series of hilarious euphemisms in which the simple act of texting someone took on the full effect of practically asking them out for the evening, getting them drunk, totaling your car - then waking up next to them twelve hours later in a travel inn just off the M2.

Also, I was tricked into reading a "example essay" that a student had written for his school a few years ago. I saw them all being handed out. There were ones on making folk music, teaching, becoming an author - and what did I get? A grueling fourteen page depression-fest about hepatitis b - which on closer inspection turned out to be a scary, twisted autobiography in which the student who wrote it explains how he caught the illness whilst taking drugs. This, of course, is the kind of luck I always 'benefit' from.

Lastly, I found out today that on Thursdays I have to take one lesson at a local college. My previous lesson ends at 11.30, and I am due on the only bus at the exact same time. That gives me no time at all to get out of lesson, find either a toilet or empty corridor to get out of my suit into something more casual (and, of course, the second I remove my trousers - the whole sixth form girl's hockey squad will walk down the previously empty corridor, turning me an interesting shade of crimson red as they mock me with their superior physical prowess) before having to jump into the bus, and instantly be transformed into some kind of human package being shipped off to the college in something that resembles a semi-reliable version of parcel force. Will it all go horribly wrong? Of course it will!

I'll let you know what happens on Thursday's update.

Updates will be daily for now.
Peace.

PS: A van just went up my road with the back doors open. I hope he knows. Maybe I should have warned him.