Someone took No Mercy out of the N64 last night to play Goldeneye. Meic was 'round, so I'm guessing it was him and Pete. Pete's probably practicing up so that JR doesn't totally dominate him again when he comes home for Christmas. Not that that won't still happen.
Speaking of JR, Cliffey has been away for the past few days because he's gone to visit his life partner in York. I received a text from The Big C himself last night informing me that JR has earned a man point, although details were not forthcoming. More on that as it develops - Cliffey's back tonight so he should have a lot of oop north tales with which to regale us.
The Christmas lights go on in town tonight (I know, it gets earlier every year), and it looks like Sarah and I will be heading in to watch, although I'm probably more excited about the pancakes and bratwurst than Matt Smith and the ferris wheel. I think Sarah's plotting to get me on the ice rink before winter ends, and I'm already trying to work out how I can fall over in such a way that I avoid getting my head sliced off by the most ice-skates.
Don't laugh. It's almost happened at least once. Yeah.
Joel.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 5)
Part 4 is here.
The forest between Gemma Meadows and Joel Fields was hard enough to navigate in broad daylight, but at night it was practically impossible. Sarah and Pete were still trying to forge ahead, but it was so dark that they could well have been going in circles since teatime.
"Pete," Sarah said finally. "I'm getting too tired to walk, and we're never going to get anywhere in the dark anyway. Let's find a place to sleep."
"And where might that be?" Pete snapped. "Did you see a bed and breakfast just through that last clump of trees? Or perhaps some sort of goat hostel?"
"Oh, shut up, Pete."
"I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. I always thought that Joel Fields was just a stone's throw away."
There was a rustling in the leaves ahead. The two goats whirled around to see two fiery red eyes staring down at them from a nearby tree.
"You shouldn't throw stones...when you're in a glass house..."
* * *
Goldberg and Cliffey were both well aware of the troll bridge.
For Goldberg, it was a nuisance. Whenever he wanted to make a trip into town, he had to time his journey so that the troll was asleep when he went over the bridge.
For Cliffey, of course, it was much more terrifying. It was only an afternoon since he had narrowly escaped death by the troll's terrible claws.
But either way, they knew that there should be something under that bridge.
"...Perhaps he just...left?" said Goldberg, hopefully.
"Perhaps," said Cliffey. But he didn't sound like he really thought so.
* * *
Sarah and Pete were too scared to run. Those evil ruby eyes went on staring at them, seeing into their souls.
"Silence is golden," croaked the voice from the tree again. "But my eyes still see!"
And with that, the biggest crow they'd ever seen swooped down to greet them.
They still couldn't move.
It landed just a few feet in front of them. It stood there on the path, still staring at them.
They said nothing.
Suddenly, the great crow spoke, much louder than before.
"Speak!" he boomed. "And I shall listen."
It was Sarah who finally stepped forward, full of fear.
"We...we're going to Joel Fields." She waited for a reply, but the crow just stared at her. She nodded, and went on, a little more confidently this time. "We're going to Joel Fields, where the grass is twice as green and the dandelions twice as dandy but we're lost. Can you help?"
The crow didn't say anything for a long time. Sarah was wondering if he'd heard when she suddenly realised that he was whispering something. All she heard was something about good intentions.
"I beg your pardon?" she trembled, now more nervous again.
The crow sighed and shook his head. "Hop on," he said, sticking out his mighty wings.
The goats hesitated.
"Do we trust him?" Pete wondered aloud.
Sarah was about to set about weighing up the pros and cons of hitching a ride on this gigantic bird, coming to a logical decision, but before she could open her mouth they heard the roar of the troll behind them. So instead of a logical decision, all that came out of her mouth was a scream.
Quick as a flash, they scrambled onto the crow's back, and as soon as they were on, he took flight. Below them, they saw the troll emerge into the clearing, looking angrier and more grotesque than ever.
Both Sarah and Pete breathed a sigh of relief.
"Good thing we didn't stop for a nap," said Pete.
"Shut up, Pete."
TO BE CONTINUED
The forest between Gemma Meadows and Joel Fields was hard enough to navigate in broad daylight, but at night it was practically impossible. Sarah and Pete were still trying to forge ahead, but it was so dark that they could well have been going in circles since teatime.
"Pete," Sarah said finally. "I'm getting too tired to walk, and we're never going to get anywhere in the dark anyway. Let's find a place to sleep."
"And where might that be?" Pete snapped. "Did you see a bed and breakfast just through that last clump of trees? Or perhaps some sort of goat hostel?"
"Oh, shut up, Pete."
"I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. I always thought that Joel Fields was just a stone's throw away."
There was a rustling in the leaves ahead. The two goats whirled around to see two fiery red eyes staring down at them from a nearby tree.
"You shouldn't throw stones...when you're in a glass house..."
* * *
Goldberg and Cliffey were both well aware of the troll bridge.
For Goldberg, it was a nuisance. Whenever he wanted to make a trip into town, he had to time his journey so that the troll was asleep when he went over the bridge.
For Cliffey, of course, it was much more terrifying. It was only an afternoon since he had narrowly escaped death by the troll's terrible claws.
But either way, they knew that there should be something under that bridge.
"...Perhaps he just...left?" said Goldberg, hopefully.
"Perhaps," said Cliffey. But he didn't sound like he really thought so.
* * *
Sarah and Pete were too scared to run. Those evil ruby eyes went on staring at them, seeing into their souls.
"Silence is golden," croaked the voice from the tree again. "But my eyes still see!"
And with that, the biggest crow they'd ever seen swooped down to greet them.
They still couldn't move.
It landed just a few feet in front of them. It stood there on the path, still staring at them.
They said nothing.
Suddenly, the great crow spoke, much louder than before.
"Speak!" he boomed. "And I shall listen."
It was Sarah who finally stepped forward, full of fear.
"We...we're going to Joel Fields." She waited for a reply, but the crow just stared at her. She nodded, and went on, a little more confidently this time. "We're going to Joel Fields, where the grass is twice as green and the dandelions twice as dandy but we're lost. Can you help?"
The crow didn't say anything for a long time. Sarah was wondering if he'd heard when she suddenly realised that he was whispering something. All she heard was something about good intentions.
"I beg your pardon?" she trembled, now more nervous again.
The crow sighed and shook his head. "Hop on," he said, sticking out his mighty wings.
The goats hesitated.
"Do we trust him?" Pete wondered aloud.
Sarah was about to set about weighing up the pros and cons of hitching a ride on this gigantic bird, coming to a logical decision, but before she could open her mouth they heard the roar of the troll behind them. So instead of a logical decision, all that came out of her mouth was a scream.
Quick as a flash, they scrambled onto the crow's back, and as soon as they were on, he took flight. Below them, they saw the troll emerge into the clearing, looking angrier and more grotesque than ever.
Both Sarah and Pete breathed a sigh of relief.
"Good thing we didn't stop for a nap," said Pete.
"Shut up, Pete."
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, 8 November 2010
Blackberry, Slowberry
I started yesterday morning on a sofabed in Swanbridge. My headphone cable was wrapped around me - I had fallen asleep listening to the latest Interpol album - so I pulled it off, wound it up, and got up to greet the new day.
It was a wonderfully brisk autumn morning, so Sarah and I went out to pick blackberries. 'Cause that's what you do on Autumn days in the countryside (Swanbridge isn't exactly the countryside but it's a helluva lot closer than Cardiff), you pick blackberries.
Assuming there are some left. It seemed that someone had beaten us to it, 'cause most of the blackberries were either dead or not there. Sarah sadly suggesested that our search would have been a lot more fruitful had we done it last week.
Fortunately, the people who had been at the blackberry bushes before us weren't gigantic freaks like I am. My tall stature and massive arms meant that we could access the high up and far away blackberries, and boy did I feel heroic when I jumped up to pull those berry-laden branches down to a harvestable height.
When we returned to Sarah's house, our hands were purple with blackberry juice and our tupperware box was about one-third full of blackberries. We'd also thrown a couple of blueberries into the mix; we weren't expecting to find them in Penarth in November but, heyho, it's all delicious.
Our intention was to bake an apple and blackberry crumble (Sarah already had some apples, we didn't pick those), and it was only when the assorted fruits were stewing in a saucepan that Sarah's dad pointed out that our blueberries...might not be blueberries. I had squished one of them earlier (just for fun) and was surprised to find a pip inside, but I decided that this must be a wild blueberry thing, and that I had been corrupted by my over-exposure to store-bought blueberries. How harsh and cruel nature truly is, I pondered.
But Sarah's dad said that they were foul-tasting slowberries, and although I hadn't heard of them then and can't find any evidence of their existence on Wikipedia now, they certainly didn't taste like blueberries so I'm inclined to believe him. Sarah's sister, who as the house's culinary whiz was helping Sarah and me overcome our kitchen clubfeet, removed as many as she could from the pot, but there were still quite a few pips to be found in the finished product.
Which was delicious anyway. Even Sarah liked it, and Sarah doesn't really like crumble. We just treated the pips like the silver sixpence in the Christmas pudding. Except there were loads of them.
When we came back to Cardiff in the evening, I found yet another empty Pot Noodle pot in the living room. Frustrated at Pete's repeated inability to use a bin, I decided to take action. I washed the pot out just enough that the remaining juices wouldn't go everywhere, placed a sticky note on the bottom reading "FUCK YOUR SHIT!", and hung it off the latch on Pete's door.
I felt pretty righteous until Pete got home from the pub quiz and pointed out that this particular Pot Noodle had been Soph's, not his. How embarrassing.
It's now on Soph's door instead.
Joel.
It was a wonderfully brisk autumn morning, so Sarah and I went out to pick blackberries. 'Cause that's what you do on Autumn days in the countryside (Swanbridge isn't exactly the countryside but it's a helluva lot closer than Cardiff), you pick blackberries.
Assuming there are some left. It seemed that someone had beaten us to it, 'cause most of the blackberries were either dead or not there. Sarah sadly suggesested that our search would have been a lot more fruitful had we done it last week.
Fortunately, the people who had been at the blackberry bushes before us weren't gigantic freaks like I am. My tall stature and massive arms meant that we could access the high up and far away blackberries, and boy did I feel heroic when I jumped up to pull those berry-laden branches down to a harvestable height.
When we returned to Sarah's house, our hands were purple with blackberry juice and our tupperware box was about one-third full of blackberries. We'd also thrown a couple of blueberries into the mix; we weren't expecting to find them in Penarth in November but, heyho, it's all delicious.
Our intention was to bake an apple and blackberry crumble (Sarah already had some apples, we didn't pick those), and it was only when the assorted fruits were stewing in a saucepan that Sarah's dad pointed out that our blueberries...might not be blueberries. I had squished one of them earlier (just for fun) and was surprised to find a pip inside, but I decided that this must be a wild blueberry thing, and that I had been corrupted by my over-exposure to store-bought blueberries. How harsh and cruel nature truly is, I pondered.
But Sarah's dad said that they were foul-tasting slowberries, and although I hadn't heard of them then and can't find any evidence of their existence on Wikipedia now, they certainly didn't taste like blueberries so I'm inclined to believe him. Sarah's sister, who as the house's culinary whiz was helping Sarah and me overcome our kitchen clubfeet, removed as many as she could from the pot, but there were still quite a few pips to be found in the finished product.
Which was delicious anyway. Even Sarah liked it, and Sarah doesn't really like crumble. We just treated the pips like the silver sixpence in the Christmas pudding. Except there were loads of them.
When we came back to Cardiff in the evening, I found yet another empty Pot Noodle pot in the living room. Frustrated at Pete's repeated inability to use a bin, I decided to take action. I washed the pot out just enough that the remaining juices wouldn't go everywhere, placed a sticky note on the bottom reading "FUCK YOUR SHIT!", and hung it off the latch on Pete's door.
I felt pretty righteous until Pete got home from the pub quiz and pointed out that this particular Pot Noodle had been Soph's, not his. How embarrassing.
It's now on Soph's door instead.
Joel.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Joel Is From The 90s
On Friday I arrived home from uni to find a small, thoroughly wrapped parcel on my bed. I was damp and pissed off, because it was raining and I had just spent 35 minutes of my precious lifespan at a bus stop (I'm guessing there was some sort of cocktail party in Blimbo), but the arrival of said parcel cheered me up no end. Also I had just been to Cadawalder's with Sarah and we had eaten a chocolate muffin ice cream sundae thing each so I had a little extra cheer anyway. That is to say:
2 Good things (Muffin Sundae + Parcel Arrival)
- 1 Bad thing (Waiting Ages In The Rain For A Bus)
= 1 Good thing
By the by, if anyone uses the term "muffin sundae" as a euphemism for something dirty, I'll sue them. But yes, this somewhat overly wrapped thing turned out, as I had suspected, to be the N64 game I had ordered from eBay some days previously. And if there's one thing more fun than playing WWF No Mercy as a ten-year old child, it's playing WWF No Mercy as an almost-not-even-a-teenager-anymore grownup, because you get the added bonus of nostalgia.
I of course grabbed the N64 from Cliffey's and started failing to challenge the Light Heavyweight championship with Edge straight away. Cliffey soon joined in and we had a Royal Rumble. I won with Shane McMahon. Cliffey was utterly humiliated.
At any rate, it turned out that Friday was Bonfire Night, so I eventually managed to tear myself away from the old-skool federation antics and go to the Co-Op, where I bought some glorious toffee apple sausages and did a baked potato to go with them. I care little for fireworks, but I am really rather keen on food, so I made sure to do it right. Pete and Alex and some of Alex's friends did actually let off some fireworks in the alley, but Sarah and I were perfectly content to watch - and listen - from our room. Josh and I had been to a music quiz the previous night (we came last, damn picture round, damn Boy George and Adam Ant looking a lot more like bald mental patients than they used to) and the indoor fireworks that had rounded that off were quite underwhelming enough for me, thank you.
Joel.
P.S. Upon my return from the music quiz at Y Fuwch Goch, Sarah, Soph, Cliffey and I sat in the living room catching up on quiz shows for a couple of hours. I think I got a couple of the questions on University Challenge right but what I'm most proud of is spotting that Grass, Dragon, Poison and Fighting were all types of Pokémon on Only Connect. A huge moment I'm sure you'll agree.
2 Good things (Muffin Sundae + Parcel Arrival)
- 1 Bad thing (Waiting Ages In The Rain For A Bus)
= 1 Good thing
By the by, if anyone uses the term "muffin sundae" as a euphemism for something dirty, I'll sue them. But yes, this somewhat overly wrapped thing turned out, as I had suspected, to be the N64 game I had ordered from eBay some days previously. And if there's one thing more fun than playing WWF No Mercy as a ten-year old child, it's playing WWF No Mercy as an almost-not-even-a-teenager-anymore grownup, because you get the added bonus of nostalgia.
I of course grabbed the N64 from Cliffey's and started failing to challenge the Light Heavyweight championship with Edge straight away. Cliffey soon joined in and we had a Royal Rumble. I won with Shane McMahon. Cliffey was utterly humiliated.
At any rate, it turned out that Friday was Bonfire Night, so I eventually managed to tear myself away from the old-skool federation antics and go to the Co-Op, where I bought some glorious toffee apple sausages and did a baked potato to go with them. I care little for fireworks, but I am really rather keen on food, so I made sure to do it right. Pete and Alex and some of Alex's friends did actually let off some fireworks in the alley, but Sarah and I were perfectly content to watch - and listen - from our room. Josh and I had been to a music quiz the previous night (we came last, damn picture round, damn Boy George and Adam Ant looking a lot more like bald mental patients than they used to) and the indoor fireworks that had rounded that off were quite underwhelming enough for me, thank you.
Joel.
P.S. Upon my return from the music quiz at Y Fuwch Goch, Sarah, Soph, Cliffey and I sat in the living room catching up on quiz shows for a couple of hours. I think I got a couple of the questions on University Challenge right but what I'm most proud of is spotting that Grass, Dragon, Poison and Fighting were all types of Pokémon on Only Connect. A huge moment I'm sure you'll agree.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
These Conversations Did Not Take Place
But They Might Have.
* * *
Joel: You know what was a great song?
Cliffey: What?
Joel: The theme tune from Mummies Alive!
Cliffey: I...can't say I remember that.
Joel: Well you suck.
* * *
Gem: Dammit! Who the hell eats curry out of a glass, anyway?
* * *
Pete: Who wants to come to the shop with me?
Joel: No thanks Pete, I'm not wearing a shirt.
Pete: Sarah?
Sarah: You are a dick!
* * *
Soph: They're all animals!
Man on Only Connect: They're all brands of hand dryer.
Lady from Only Connect: That...is...correct!
Soph: Moh.
* * *
Tom: Oh it's a chance!
Cliffey: Shit!
Tom: Has to score!
Cliffey: Shit!
Tom: YEEEEEEEES! Slotted!
Cliffey: Shit!
Joel: Cliffey, that was your fault.
* * *
Soph: Check out the gloves I stole from work!
Pete: Those are some pretty sweet gloves, Soph.
Alex: Yeah, you're not supposed to take those.
Soph: Shut up, douche!
* * *
Gem: Sarah, did you clean up all those fag butts from outside?
Sarah: Yarr.
Gem: That was Pete's job!
Sarah: He be walkin' the plank.
Gem: I...are you...
Sarah: I'm a pirate today.
* * *
Alex: I'm just feeling kind of...I dunno. I miss you, and Soph keeps calling me a douche, and I don't know how I can hold up a meaningful relationship with a kleptomaniac...yeah...yeah, I know, I have to be strong. Okay. I love you too, JR.
* * *
Joel: And I would do an-eh-theng for love...I would do an-eh-thing for loooOOOVE...I would do an-eh-thiing for love...
Pete: Me ken't believe it's not kastard! 'Cuz it tayests like kastard taystes!
* * *
Sarah: I bought you a flan base, Cliffey.
Cliffey: Awh, thanks, Saz.
Sarah: And Pete, I got you some crisps.
Pete: Quavers? QUAVERS?! NOBODY LIKES QUAVERS, YOU CUR!
Joel: I like Quavers.
Cliffey: God, Pete.
* * *
Soph: I like chicken!
Gem: Soph, living with you is like I bought the dictionary on audiobook and put it on Shuffle.
Soph: I don't read books.
* * *
Tom: I'm working on a rap, right? It's called "The World I Mapped & The Ass I Tapped".
Joel: What?
Tom: It's about Christopher Columbus.
Joel: I'm going to bed.
* * *
For the record, no, I don't know how I managed to insert a hyperlink into my speech.
Joel.
* * *
Joel: You know what was a great song?
Cliffey: What?
Joel: The theme tune from Mummies Alive!
Cliffey: I...can't say I remember that.
Joel: Well you suck.
* * *
Gem: Dammit! Who the hell eats curry out of a glass, anyway?
* * *
Pete: Who wants to come to the shop with me?
Joel: No thanks Pete, I'm not wearing a shirt.
Pete: Sarah?
Sarah: You are a dick!
* * *
Soph: They're all animals!
Man on Only Connect: They're all brands of hand dryer.
Lady from Only Connect: That...is...correct!
Soph: Moh.
* * *
Tom: Oh it's a chance!
Cliffey: Shit!
Tom: Has to score!
Cliffey: Shit!
Tom: YEEEEEEEES! Slotted!
Cliffey: Shit!
Joel: Cliffey, that was your fault.
* * *
Soph: Check out the gloves I stole from work!
Pete: Those are some pretty sweet gloves, Soph.
Alex: Yeah, you're not supposed to take those.
Soph: Shut up, douche!
* * *
Gem: Sarah, did you clean up all those fag butts from outside?
Sarah: Yarr.
Gem: That was Pete's job!
Sarah: He be walkin' the plank.
Gem: I...are you...
Sarah: I'm a pirate today.
* * *
Alex: I'm just feeling kind of...I dunno. I miss you, and Soph keeps calling me a douche, and I don't know how I can hold up a meaningful relationship with a kleptomaniac...yeah...yeah, I know, I have to be strong. Okay. I love you too, JR.
* * *
Joel: And I would do an-eh-theng for love...I would do an-eh-thing for loooOOOVE...I would do an-eh-thiing for love...
Pete: Me ken't believe it's not kastard! 'Cuz it tayests like kastard taystes!
* * *
Sarah: I bought you a flan base, Cliffey.
Cliffey: Awh, thanks, Saz.
Sarah: And Pete, I got you some crisps.
Pete: Quavers? QUAVERS?! NOBODY LIKES QUAVERS, YOU CUR!
Joel: I like Quavers.
Cliffey: God, Pete.
* * *
Soph: I like chicken!
Gem: Soph, living with you is like I bought the dictionary on audiobook and put it on Shuffle.
Soph: I don't read books.
* * *
Tom: I'm working on a rap, right? It's called "The World I Mapped & The Ass I Tapped".
Joel: What?
Tom: It's about Christopher Columbus.
Joel: I'm going to bed.
* * *
For the record, no, I don't know how I managed to insert a hyperlink into my speech.
Joel.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Sharments II
The Re-Sharmenting.
RECENT THINGS
Joel.
RECENT THINGS
- Sunday was Halloween. We had a small gathering here to celebrate, and much Halloweeny music was listened to. If any trick-or-treaters did come to the house, I didn't hear about it.
- Friday was not Halloween but Josh and Rich and Elusive Dave had a Halloween party anyway. I went as a slightly cheap Freddy Krueger, and Sarah was the Grim Reaper. Josh wasn't anything in particular, he just wore spandex. Herbie and Mark were, between them, Team Rocket, although they were minus Meowth. I'm not sure what Soph was, some sort of evil prostitute possibly. Tom was a banana.
- Speaking of Tom, Tom has a tattoo now. Unless his parents are reading this, in which case Tom has not got a tattoo now.
- I paid the water bill last night, mostly because Dwr Cymru were threatening legal action if we didn't. It cost me about £300, so everyone in the house now owes me sixty pounds! Except Cliffey, who has already paid, and Sarah and Alex, who get to not pay bills because they pay in love.
- Many of the people affiliated with the house went to Oceana on Monday night. Nobody's quite sure what happened, but we do know that Cliffey, Soph and Tom spent yesterday on Cliffey's bed, laughing. Unless Tom's parents are reading this, in which case it was just Soph and Cliffey because Tom was in work.
- It's November, which of course mean it's Movember (or Novembeard if you prefer). I will be hoping to improve on last year's pitiful peachfuzz, but Cliffey, Josh, JR, Mark, Pete (I think) and others are all likely to do far better than me.
- I briefly became part of a folk three-piece yesterday, playing the bongos along with René (guitar/vox) and Calum (violin) from my uni ensemble. We played down in the foyer (or 'street') around lunchtime, belting out some folk songs and also a couple of Irish jigs, because Calum is just an awesome fiddle player. Then last night I showed off my bongo-playing skills to my awed housemates, and we obviously sang Creep, our house's national anthem.
- The national anthem of the Josh/Rich/Elusive Dave household is Live & Let Die because we had a conversation about it there once. Should it be the Macca version or the Guns 'N' Roses cover? Cast your votes now.
- My brother Nathan came 'round on Friday night for a game of Risk with myself and Cliffey. I won in TWO TURNS, because I'm AWESOME. We filled the remaining time by playing Worms, at which I still rock although I think Tom won on Friday night.
- I hit The Record Shop on Saturday and got five CDs for a pound each. They were: Kid Carpet's Ideas and Oh Dears; My Computer's No CV; Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell; Destiny's Child's Survivor; and Bloc Party's Bloc Party (for Sarah, I obviously already have that record, obviously). I love The Record Shop, everybody go there on Thursdays to Saturdays.
- You know another awesome shop? Wally's Delicatessen. Sarah and I went there on Sunday; I bought a small pot of olives from the olive pick 'n' mix (also featuring stuffed peppers!) and she bought a huge box of Nerds (remember those?) which we're still picking away at.
- Mark, Josh and I are going to see Titus Andronicus in Bristol this month, but not before Sarah, Josh and I go to see LCD Soundsystem and Hot Chip at the CIA.
- Soph got a WoMan point for carving the pumpkins on Friday night, but although there are a lot of pending Man Points they will have to wait until I get a new marker. Pete used the last one up by drawing on his face.
Joel.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Around The Horn
Cutlery regrets to announce the cancellation of The 50th Post Special. Instead, please enjoy this light-hearted tale of folly and redemption on the buses.
I know, we're disappointed too. I don't know how Joel managed to get so big in Slovenia with this attitude. I daresay Slovakia will be a lot less sympathetic to this shit.
* * *
Monday morning is always band practice. Seven of us and our various instruments get together and make sweet sweet music for a couple of hours, before the midday cultures lecture come and dampens our spirits.
Yesterday, however, our noise-making was a little delayed. The beardy guy on reception refused to give me the room key without permission from our course leader, Ben Challis, and the ensuing wild goose chase (I never did track down Dr. Challis) meant that we wasted an hour or so talking amongst ourselves in the corridor. By the time one of the nice techies from the second floor helped us out, we were already halfway into our allotted time, and not looking too likely to accomplish much.
But this post isn't a tirade against the people on reception at the Atrium, nor is it a play-by-play of our abridged band rehearsal. This is a story about a boy (me) and his baritone (my baritone).
It's fair to say that I don't treat the old thing with a great amount of care. My bandmates are often left aghast at the way I toss it around, knock it over, and generally don't show it any respect.
Well yesterday it seems I was so excited to finally get into the practice room that I didn't even bother to bring my instrument in with me, leaving it still sat in the corridor. Our drummer, Luke, grabbed it for me and suggested - not for the first time - that I really ought to take better care of it. I agreed half-heartedly, and said that it was like a parent to me - I treat it horribly, but I'd be fairly sad if it were gone, perhaps because it's so important to getting me through uni. No more was said on the matter, and we used the hour as best we could. Songs were played, and I introduced my Spaghetti Western version of Holding Out For A Hero.
Now. There's an hour-long gap in my timetable between the band practice and the cultures lecture, and I usually spend this hour on the computers in the library, or I take the opportunity to go and get a bit of food (having to be in uni at 9am doesn't leave a lot of time for breakfast). Yesterday, however, I had a plan. I was supposed to be meeting Sarah straight after my cultures lecture and going to Swanbridge with her for an evening away from the city, with its noise and pollution and people who ask you for spare change and shout at you when you don't have any. I didn't want to have to drag my baritone, ungainly as it is, to the far side of Penarth, so I decided to get a bus home, drop off the horn, and speedily get a bus back into town in time for my lecture.
That was the plan, and it was going swimmingly until I got off the bus on Crwys Road and realised, at it sped off into the late morning sun, that I had left my baritone on the luggage rack.
Oh no! My dear sweet baritone horn! Would I never again sound its brassy tone? Would the makeshift handle never again slice into my weary fingers? Would my brave attempts at playing Klezmer Kollectiv tunes by ear never again make my housemates long for the wormy peace of the grave?
I wandered, shaken, back to the house, where I informed Cliffey of my plight:
"I've left my baritone on the bus."
"That's the saddest sentence I've ever heard."
I was in no mood to eat, but, knowing that I had to keep my strength up, I managed to choke down a bakewell tart. I prepared to head back to uni, taking a little consolation in the knowledge that Cardiff Bus does have a lost and found, and how money second-hand baritone horns does one bus company rake in over the course of a day?
I waited mournfully at the bus stop, not looking forward to the two hours of "the music industry wants to rape you" that lie in wait for me back at the Atrium. As the number 38 pulled up, I found the driver oddly familar. He didn't recognise me, of course, but that didn't matter because as I hopped onto the bus I saw, in the luggage rack, my baritone case. Somebody, apparently, likes me.
I was never worried, of course. I timed my journey perfectly so that I would catch the same bus on its return journey to central station. I hadn't even considered how useless I would be to my uni ensemble without my horn. And I knew that the driver wouldn't bat an eye at the fact that I got off the bus carrying a large brown case that had been there since before I got on.
So that's my good karma gone for the rest of the year, anyhow. I hurried back to the Atrium, baritone case swinging recklessly in my hand, and settled into my midday cultures lecture, where we were told, amongst other things, that session musicians no longer exist.
I was a bit alarmed; my cousin's a session musician. I should probably make sure he's okay.
Joel.
* * *
I know, that was rubbish. He didn't even mention the awesome Halloween parties, of which there were TWO. You'd think he'd remember at least one of them, right?
I know, we're disappointed too. I don't know how Joel managed to get so big in Slovenia with this attitude. I daresay Slovakia will be a lot less sympathetic to this shit.
* * *
Monday morning is always band practice. Seven of us and our various instruments get together and make sweet sweet music for a couple of hours, before the midday cultures lecture come and dampens our spirits.
Yesterday, however, our noise-making was a little delayed. The beardy guy on reception refused to give me the room key without permission from our course leader, Ben Challis, and the ensuing wild goose chase (I never did track down Dr. Challis) meant that we wasted an hour or so talking amongst ourselves in the corridor. By the time one of the nice techies from the second floor helped us out, we were already halfway into our allotted time, and not looking too likely to accomplish much.
But this post isn't a tirade against the people on reception at the Atrium, nor is it a play-by-play of our abridged band rehearsal. This is a story about a boy (me) and his baritone (my baritone).
It's fair to say that I don't treat the old thing with a great amount of care. My bandmates are often left aghast at the way I toss it around, knock it over, and generally don't show it any respect.
Well yesterday it seems I was so excited to finally get into the practice room that I didn't even bother to bring my instrument in with me, leaving it still sat in the corridor. Our drummer, Luke, grabbed it for me and suggested - not for the first time - that I really ought to take better care of it. I agreed half-heartedly, and said that it was like a parent to me - I treat it horribly, but I'd be fairly sad if it were gone, perhaps because it's so important to getting me through uni. No more was said on the matter, and we used the hour as best we could. Songs were played, and I introduced my Spaghetti Western version of Holding Out For A Hero.
Now. There's an hour-long gap in my timetable between the band practice and the cultures lecture, and I usually spend this hour on the computers in the library, or I take the opportunity to go and get a bit of food (having to be in uni at 9am doesn't leave a lot of time for breakfast). Yesterday, however, I had a plan. I was supposed to be meeting Sarah straight after my cultures lecture and going to Swanbridge with her for an evening away from the city, with its noise and pollution and people who ask you for spare change and shout at you when you don't have any. I didn't want to have to drag my baritone, ungainly as it is, to the far side of Penarth, so I decided to get a bus home, drop off the horn, and speedily get a bus back into town in time for my lecture.
That was the plan, and it was going swimmingly until I got off the bus on Crwys Road and realised, at it sped off into the late morning sun, that I had left my baritone on the luggage rack.
Oh no! My dear sweet baritone horn! Would I never again sound its brassy tone? Would the makeshift handle never again slice into my weary fingers? Would my brave attempts at playing Klezmer Kollectiv tunes by ear never again make my housemates long for the wormy peace of the grave?
I wandered, shaken, back to the house, where I informed Cliffey of my plight:
"I've left my baritone on the bus."
"That's the saddest sentence I've ever heard."
I was in no mood to eat, but, knowing that I had to keep my strength up, I managed to choke down a bakewell tart. I prepared to head back to uni, taking a little consolation in the knowledge that Cardiff Bus does have a lost and found, and how money second-hand baritone horns does one bus company rake in over the course of a day?
I waited mournfully at the bus stop, not looking forward to the two hours of "the music industry wants to rape you" that lie in wait for me back at the Atrium. As the number 38 pulled up, I found the driver oddly familar. He didn't recognise me, of course, but that didn't matter because as I hopped onto the bus I saw, in the luggage rack, my baritone case. Somebody, apparently, likes me.
I was never worried, of course. I timed my journey perfectly so that I would catch the same bus on its return journey to central station. I hadn't even considered how useless I would be to my uni ensemble without my horn. And I knew that the driver wouldn't bat an eye at the fact that I got off the bus carrying a large brown case that had been there since before I got on.
So that's my good karma gone for the rest of the year, anyhow. I hurried back to the Atrium, baritone case swinging recklessly in my hand, and settled into my midday cultures lecture, where we were told, amongst other things, that session musicians no longer exist.
I was a bit alarmed; my cousin's a session musician. I should probably make sure he's okay.
Joel.
* * *
I know, that was rubbish. He didn't even mention the awesome Halloween parties, of which there were TWO. You'd think he'd remember at least one of them, right?
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