Tuesday, April 20
Tuesday, 13th AprilI was thinking about this last night, and I'd come to the conclusion that there was in fact nothing at all that happened to me that came anywhere near interesting or at the very least noteworthy.
It was then that I remembered that I'd picked up my new mobile phone on the Tuesday of last week. Well, when I say picked up, I really mean that I spent over 2 hours in a mobile phone shop (yes, well done on efficiency Phones 4 U) trying to upgrade my contract with a new handset, and then eventually having to settle for a new contract along with a new mobile number.
2 fucking hours!
I had a trainee serving me, who had been thrown in right at the deep end. I don't blame her, because she was very nice and helpful, but it just didn't seem as if she'd been trained all that much. The system was letting her (and me) down, making her seem like a fish out of water, or even incompetent.
I think I got a pretty good deal, and my shiny new phone is so very cool. It's the Samsung one with the camera and flash built in. If I could only get it to connect to my computer properly, there'd be loads more pictures on The Photo Blog. I'll get it sorted eventually, probably.
Wednesday, 14th April
A dull (read "no revision, no Girl, no football) day, until the evening.
A few of my housemates were going to Candybox at this club called Hombre's, just off Oxford Street, and I tagged along, since it had been nearly 2 weeks since I'd had a night out, and over nearly 72 hours (!) since the last drop of alcohol passed my lips. I'm not an alcoholic though. Actually, writing this today (the 20th), I haven't drank any alcohol since that night out, which was a week ago. I'm so very proud of myself.
We got to this place sometime around 10.30, and I was thoroughly, how you say, appalled. It reminded me so much of Buds back home in Melksham, with mirrors everywhere and a somewhat chaotic lighting arrangement. Tacky is definitely the word.
What made me think of Buds even more was the sheer youth of everyone in there. We played a little game for the rest of the night, trying to spot girls who were over 18; there weren't many. I felt so, so old, and I'm only fucking 20!
We grabbed a table near the dancefloor, and set about downing the cheap (nasty) vodkas. I was in fits of giggles for most of that time, because although the dancefloor was mostly empty, there were a few people (kids) on it.
I should stop here and explain what type of music was playing. If I described it as Fashion Rock, would you understand what I mean? I'm talking about bands such as The Strokes, The White Stripes, The Vines, Franz Ferdinand and all of that genre.
I fucking hate Fashion Rock. With a passion.
It was so funny to watch these teenagers prancing (literally) about the dancefloor, strutting and holding their hands in weird positions. So very, very funny. Like I said, I was in fits of giggles.
I was also inspired by that period to write something here concerning alternative mainstreams, which I will do at some point (Note to self: AFTER exams). I'll try to gloss over that element here, since I don't want to spoil that particular mini-essay / diatribe.
Me and Phil noticed just how prominent horizontal stripes were on everyone's clothing, especially those who seemed to be properly into the music and the whole scene. There's nothing like trying to be different and still looking the same as everyone else...
I have to say that it did improve in the last hour or two, because the dancefloor was absolutely rammed and they moved a little bit away from Fashion Rock, musically. Of course, by this time, I was mildly inebriated, and couldn't really care what music was playing. I'm so predictable when it comes to drinking and dancing. I will refuse to dance to anything for ages, and then suddenly I'll be drunk enough to dance to absolutely any song that is put on. I'm weird.
I could mention how my *****mates got on that night, and whether they p*lled g*rls or not, but I will just get m**ned at. Meh. **** p*lled a ** year-old g*rl, for the *nd week in a r*w, and ***** ***l** **i* **-****-*** ***h** o* t**, *h** **s *l* **e* *i*, i*******g g******g *i* *i** *n **s t******** ***l** o* t** d********r.
I feel just like a News Of The World writer discussing the Beckham text messages. At least I know what it means. And I can't get moaned at if and when any of my housemates read it.
Hello all of you, by the way, glad to know you're reading.
