Hold the phone sister

'Cos Ruth and I got into the living room last week.

Those of you with poor memories, short attention spans, or simply an inclination to tune out completely when I start to rant about boring stuff that has nothing to do with you or your life may not recall just how forbidden a zone the living room is. Well, I'm too lazy to repeat myself; so click here instead.

The only thing close to a communal living area is the kitchen, and lately Ruth and I have taken to sitting around down there playing battleships, watching internet TV on her laptop and getting smashed on exotic cocktails (more on this later). But on Tuesday, all efforts to connect to the internets met with resounding failure. Marco had turned off the wireless router. That'd be the wireless router in the locked living room, then.

Trapped in a cold kitchen with no IT Crowd and only half a bottle of dark rum left? That shit's whack, y'all.

So, a bit of desperate rummaging through the kitchen drawers commenced, and keys were found. Not to the living room, but to Marco's bedroom.

So, a gross invasion of privacy and a bit of desperate rummaging through bedroom drawers commenced, and keys were found. The keys to the living room.

Which as it happens, contained a switched on and fully functioning wireless router - turns out that the Channel 4 website was just being a bit gay. But that didn't matter, because now we had access to the living room, the big TV, the big suede sofa, and the pointless table lamp. Nice.

So instead of sitting on uncomfortable kitchen chairs watching internet TV on a crappy laptop, we lounged about on a big ass sofa and watched DVDs on a big telly instead. Being incurably paranoid about this sort of thing, I took a photo of the remote controls so as to ensure that we would be able to put them all back into the exact same position that we found them in.

We also went to great efforts to brush our ass-prints off of the suede sofa; I suppose we could have sat on the floor, but I was suffering...

The previous weekend I got tricked into playing badminton with Dom, Laura and Matt (who loves all the people of the world - ALL OF THEM). I say tricked; what I mean is that I am highly suggestible when drunk, and also quite forgetful. So even though I had no memory of our conversation, it did sound like the sort of thing that I might have agreed to... and so I slapped on my formal shorts, rocked up to the sports centre at 12pm on Sunday, and leapt about like a goon. It was a bit like watching me dance, only with more swearing and less Beyonce. And even though Matt and I's "Horns of the Bull" tactic (whereby we lured our opponents towards the centre of the court, then ran around either side of the net and bashed them with badminton sticks) failed, it was all rather good fun. It was less fun the next day, when I was reminded of just how little exercise I've done in recent years by the aching protests of every muscle in my body...

And so a spot of ilicit lying about on the sofa was welcome relief. Further relief was provided in the form of the afore-mentioned exotic cocktails. Here is a Havana Beach.

Do not be fooled by it's appearance; it is not a highball glass filled with foaming nut-brown ale and dressed with a slice of lime. It is instead a delicious concoction of dark rum, ginger beer and pineapple juice. Yum.

We've tried a few other cocktail recipes, and even had a crack at making our own; with some success... We called this one "House Arrest".

Instructions: Tip what little whiskey you have left into a glass. Add some triple sec, fresh orange juice and a few drops of angstura bitters. After an abortive attempt to sprinkle grated orange peel over the top, settle for a slice of orange and some ice. Drink, and then break into your landlord's bedroom and living room.

It is called House Arrest because that is what Ruth currently finds herself under, due to the rampant paranoia and jealousy of her ex. Despite the fact that he chose to break up with her, Sam still seems to be taking it all quite badly; and Ruth is receiving quite enough hatefully emo text messages from him already, so doesn't feel the need to risk being spotted in public with - gasp - another boy...

Bernie Madoff is a thieving cunt with blood on his hands

If you've not done so already, go here and read this.

Feeling a weird mix of sympathy, indignation and defeat.

Luncheon Club: 1, Bolshevism: 0

The 8th of February 2009 shall for ever more be remembered as the day that we proved ourselves to be the most drunken font of pointless trivia in all the pub.*

We won the quiz, and thus Bolshevism has been destroyed.

Not ones to rest on our laurels, we must now become a luncheon club dedicated to the destruction of something else. But what? Perhaps one of the following.

• Nihilism
• Idealism
• Creationism
• False Metal
• Your Mum

To vote for your favourite, simply shout really loudly at your monitor.

* And perhaps also remembered as the day that Jess gave birth to her and Gorgeous George's first child, Alex. Congrats, etc...

rules

• Roll a D6; 1's are bad.
• No spitting, bombing or heavy petting.
• Look left; look right; keep looking left and right.
• Ensure all surfaces are free of dirt and grease.
• Don't cross the streams.
• At the end of each level you must defeat a boss.
• Keep arms and legs inside the car at all times.
• Depress for one second, then release.
• Let the Wookie win.
  
• BITCHES LEAVE

• If stuck for things to write about (or feeling a bit/very lazy), just make a list of crap and stick a picture of Clarence Bodecker in the middle of it.
  

Learning is fun

Another week passes in my continuing struggle to impress upon people the concept of finite resources. It's getting a bit like Groundhog Day; I seem to keep having the same conversations with people, telling them the same thing each and every day...

We have four electricians on site.

They're all immersed in other projects.

We can do your thing on Monday.

It's not so hard an idea to grasp, is it? Maybe I should draw them a picture.

On Saturdays, I cheer myself up by being sarcastic to customers at the Big Gay Department Store.

ME: That'll be £67, please.
IDIOT WOMAN: Why?
ME: ...er, because it is? I'm not sure I understand the question.
IDIOT WOMAN: How much is each of those jumpers?
ME: The brown one is £28, the blue one is £39.
IDIOT WOMAN: Oh, I thought they were both £28.
ME: Nope. According to the labels, the brown one is £28 and is made of a cotton/cashmere blend; whilst the blue one is £39, and made of merino. Merino is a special kind of wool that grants the wearer supernatural powers, so it costs more. Would you like to keep the hangers?
IDIOT WOMAN: ..........

And of course, by playing Cake or Death.

Obviously a pastry-type-thing containing something... but what? Could be anything. The red ooze seeping from the edges offers up few clues; could be summer fruits, could be monkey placenta...

Ew. I just made myself feel a bit sick.

JAM = CAKE. WIN

This crushing tedium has been punctuated only by an unexpected rendezvous with erstwhile work colleague Beautiful Steve, who was randomly in Exeter for one night only, to visit his parents. We got drunk, talked about how great we were (not very, as it turns out), and played a bit of pool (badly) before stumbling off in opposite directions to catch our last trains home.

Except that my last train had been canceled in order to allow workmen to drink tea at the side of the tracks in safety; and so it was replaced with the EMO BUS, a small clattering mini bus filled with the sounds of young American men singing through their noses about their feelings and shit, and driven by an awkward looking chap with an asymmetrical fringe, ill-fitting black clothes, and the kind of repetitive nervous twitches that make you think he shouldn't be allowed to drive people around in buses.

Seating was adequate.