Although it wasn’t intended to be, clearly my assertion that I might start posting more than once per week was no more than an empty threat. This could be viewed as either a blessing or a curse; you get less reading material, but it is (in theory at least) less banal. Probably a lot less emo, too.
I could try to claim that I have simply been far too busy to write, and as an experienced and dedicated procrastinator I reckon that I could quite easily make it sound as though the mundane activities of the past week have left me run off my feet. The truth is that aside from a job interview, some banger racing and a lot of toy soldiering, I’ve mostly just been to drunk and/or lazy to drive a computer.
Yep, more banger racing. Since it was only Dozer, The Boy and myself going this time, I had to do the driving, since neither of the other two have a car licence. In fact, Dozer still doesn’t have a bike licence, a fairly essential piece of paper for anyone wanting to be in a biker gang… he assures us that he is getting it all sorted out. We know full well that he isn’t doing anything of the sort, but it’s easier to just not care – and so that’s what we do.
Anyway, I actually remembered to bring my camera to the racing this time, so you can be bored by pictures instead of words. You lucky people.
The view out over the pit area, just behind where we were standing. That's a whole lot of Somerset right there. As impressive as the view was, what was even more impressive was the way that no matter what kind of damage had been inflicted on a car during a race, it could all be fixed with either a hammer, or a really big hammer.
As luck would have it, this was the first (and quite possibly the last) time that Mendips Raceway had ever hosted Coach Racing. The racing itself was pretty dull, what with coaches being quite desperately slow 'n' all; but the demolition derby at the end of the day was splendidly destructive, even if there were only five participants - four actual coaches, plus one light goods vehicle with windows painted onto the side of it.
The job interview was for the position of “Part-time Guest Services Assistant”, or something. Basically, driving a desk at Bristol Premier Apartments for sixteen hours a week. The pay’s pretty crappy, but it seems like a nice place to work, and it is a bit different to the retail environment that I’m more used to. The interview itself seemed to go quite well, and I should only have to wait another week for them to get back to me and explain that 11 years experience in the toy soldier retail industry is worthless, and no, I am not even fit to answer their phone.
Most of my time this week has been wasted in the company of Mr Jeff McDeath A-Bomb Urban Destruction, either getting drunk, or playing with toys, or both. He is a servant of the Dark Side of procrastination (ie. just plain lazy), and as a result missed out on getting a half-decent degree by a whisker; then applied for a teaching course in London far too late to have any realistic chance of getting in; then applied for the same course back here in Bristol even later, with even less chance of getting in. The legendary Remorseless Loving Machine is now supposed to be finding himself a job of some description, but instead is spending a lot of time at my house playing games and smoking weed. Silly boy.
Meanwhile, it seems that Sam has developed a new and quite unsavoury habit. For some reason he has taken to graphically describing his bowel movements to anyone that happens to be around at the time. Last week we all got to hear about an unpleasant and embarrassing “following through” incident when he tried to fart in bed one morning; more usually he simply insists on describing how he feels his excremental efforts have rated on the Bristol Stool Scale, a local cultural and scientific claim to fame that I had not previously been aware of.
In hindsight, I was probably far happier in my ignorance.
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