Goodbye Twitter. Hello Pinterest

My Pinterest Boards

Not satisfied with the scores of social media sites I’ve signed up to I’m now also on Pinterest.

Unlike Twitter, which I never really committed to (I’m a visual person, besides all those hash tags are annoying.) I have only 3 Pinterest boards: one for Arty-Farty stuff, a Home one and my work one. So I’m certain I can commit to updating them regularly.

I have also created another blog called 10 Years of Mediocre Photography where I’ll be posting 1 photo a day until I run out, which given my happy-go-lucky trigger finger is unlikely to happen until I die.

I’m starting off with all my black and white photos I took and developed in our college darkroom at Camberwell, then I’m afraid it’s largely digital.

The rubbish Motorola Razr phone camera first then on to the surprisingly decent Sony Ericsson phone /camera and after we’ve got through all those finally we’ll get to my new camera. God knows when I’ll get to those. I have bucket loads of photos. 

Camberwell was a marginally shoddy college however they had a great black and white darkroom that was open till 9:30 every evening. Having no social life at the time (it was a really anti social 2 years) I spent nearly all evenings in the darkroom.

Can’t say my photos are particularly good, but I like a couple. I do miss developing film. I miss the smell of darkroom chemicals (oddly like fried chicken), I miss watching your photo develop in the tray but it was a pretty expensive hobby.

There is a great photographic supply shop in Southwark called Silverprint where I used to buy lots of discount photographic paper.

I also used to buy cyanotype chemicals (toxic stuff but handy) from there and make up a batch in my tiny student hall room. (No gloves used either. Health & Safety? What’s that?)

Chest X-Ray Cyanotype

If you don’t know what a Cyanotype is, it’s very similar to a photogram.

You coat a piece of paper with this greenish chemical mix, but unlike a photogram this coating is only sensitive to UV light.

So it’s something you can easily do in your room as long as it has a window facing the sun or a sunny balcony.

Once your paper has been exposed to UV light, you then rinse it in water to develop the print and set the chemical coating.

The coating looks dark green once exposed but after the water bath it turns a vivid blue. You can also make these in a warm sepia tone. I’ve found the cheaper the paper (higher acidity) used the better the print quality.

Skull Cyanotype

The only way I could make these was by taping the piece of coated paper to my student hall room window for a couple of hours and the only thing I had that would stay up that long were a series of X-Rays. (Now and then I’d find the masking tape had worn off and the X-Ray and coated paper would fall off)

Some are mine, some are from various family members.

Hands Cyanotype

Portrait: Old Work

Portrait

M.A. Show

The Paper Suit And Camera

I got A4 to come with me to the last M.A. Communication Design show.

It was fairly well hidden in the heart of Hipsterville.

So I got lost, naturally.

I had drawn myself a map on an old receipt (my phone is so old school that it has no internet and the call button has fallen off) but my hurried scrawl was a little confusing.

I asked some guy who was strolling along wearing ray bans, a white vest and tight trousers if he knew where so-and-so place was. He answered languidly in his hipsterville drawl in the negative.

I don’t know why, but I really wanted to punch him.

Fucking drugged up Shoreditchsters. They never know anything.

After much meandering past many artist-run shops with unaffordable, totally useless (yet strangely desirable) hand-made products, I finally found a little grassy hillock (It was a roundabout, but a classy one) where there was a ‘carom meet’.

This had puzzled me until I climbed to the top of this hillock and saw a couple of nerdy indian boys playing carom very intently. It was some fund-raiser of sorts. That it was Indians playing seemed perfectly in keeping with my idea of carom which we played often while on family holidays.

I found A4 on the other side of the carom meet with her woman.

We soon ran into more people looking for this show who were equally lost. We all wandered around the round-about, both groups lost and following each other, trying to find this school.

The guy with the cut-out things was the first thing by the door. He had a life size suit, shoes, a Rolex and the working pin-hole camera all folded and made from paper.

I promptly started accumulating all the illustration postcards. I love artist postcards. A4 said I must only go to these shows to collect postcards.

I also go for the free booze n’ schmooze, but I missed that evening this year. Next year!

Some of the illustration was very beautiful and very intricate. Some were slightly disappointing, I gotta say. There were not as many penises this year. I did a count.

It was a real struggle to give any time and attention to the design and media work. I liked some of the ideas but the presentation of it was so banal I dread to think what the M.A. show is going to look like next year without any photography or illustration.

I bypassed the arabic font thing entirely. It looked mighty dull, I’m sorry, but it really was. There’s only so much arabic font projects I can be bothered to look at. Our college seems to churn these things out every year. Give me a nice penis drawing any day.

There was a really interesting project about commercial fishing and depleting fish stocks. Nice graphic posters too.

I think the way design projects are exhibited needs to be addressed. Two dimensional media like illustration, painting and photography lends itself to just being placed flat on a wall easily.

Design projects that are all about the concept, the working idea or that have a function seem to suffer unless presented in some outstanding way. Placed flat on a wall just doesn’t work well and I don’t think that leafing through a bunch of research books and what-not is the best way to exhibit what might be a great idea.

Anyway my design bias aside, the show was good. Shame it’s all over.

Another show picture. It's not part of the art work. I just enjoyed it.

We then wandered down to Brick Lane to window shop and to see a collection of whole sale B.A. work from various colleges in a part of the Truman Brewery. (I think it was called ‘Egg’ or had something with ‘egg’ in it.)

Gung-ho Jesus. This guy's idea was by far the most interesting. He had a few others fake comic covers. Osama being defeated etc. I'd like to see this comic made. I wish he had at least a few pages of a story line done.

There is nothing more depressing that a bunch of foundation and B.A work lumped together in a giant network of bricked rooms. It was a show of mostly A4 sized photographs and seriously earnest project statements.

One was about how the media portrays people in such a idealized way that this persons project wanted to change all that by just photographing ‘normal’ people in the nude.

A4 said she felt terribly jaded.

There was also just so much all in one space that it was impossible not to feel slightly tired once you’d seen/read a few.

Another project was just an assembly of found objects: Old boxes, cigars, match boxes, some old photos. All this person had done was sew over the faces in the photos. It wasn’t even a pattern, it was just lines. That was it.

I read the artist / project information and it was a load of garbage. The sheer laziness of that project made me absolutely irate. Not only had his girl done very little aside from buying from junk sales and assembling it in a totally boring way but then she had also gone and destroyed some very interesting old photos for a totally shitty project. What an idiothole.

We left shortly and sat outside in the sun drinking Ginger beer.

Ah Buxton.

Brick Lane

Tiny Street Graffitti Women

I got a great quote from A4, (who is currently PhDing) who once asked her mother about future career prospects while studying marine biology. Her mother’s response is my current favorite quote.

“Don’t get onto the sinking ship of science.”

Dr. So-and-so P. Dr. of Nuclear Physics and part winner of the Nobel peace prize.

PhD’s AND Nobel Peace prizes!!?? I can’t believe A4′s family are such over achievers.

I’d better get back to drawing that outline of a lemon I started the other day.

 

Update:

The whole sale graduate art show wasn’t called Egg. It was called Free Range.

Close enough.

CSM To Kill M.A. Illustration Course!

I am fucking outraged. This is a travesty.

They want to drop the illustration pathway from my old M.A. at Central St. Martins.

Got an email out of the blue from Foz, our illustration tutor and the subject of many posts on this blog, asking us to sign this petition to keep illustration as a separate course as opposed to just some cheap whorish add-on to the design course.

Fucking designers. Fucking bastard typographers.

You know what? I may have a ‘design’ job but at heart, I’m an illustrator, and I always will be. So fuck all you designers, I don’t fucking care about your fucking grid.

Fuck you, fuck your grid and fuck, fucking Helvetica! Fuck.

So there.

Now lets take a deep breath, and sign the petition below.

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/macdillustration/

So this is what I wrote for the petition:

“First of all, I can’t imagine being stuck with a bunch on typographers and designers on the same course. All they care about is ligature and kerning. It’s ridiculous. It’s practically impossible to stay awake during a crit.

I would never have bothered applying for the course if illustration wasn’t its own pathway.

More seriously, it would be a huge mistake to drop this course. Even if my future career is not illustration, it really informed my thinking and approach to any brief/project. It was a fantastic course, largely due to the teaching from Foz & Gary.

I wish I could do another M.A. Keep it!”

Even if you are not from CSM or even an art student please sign this petition so those fucking idiotic bureaucrats don’t drop the best pathway off the M.A.

Design is fucking cold and dead. The course needs illustration.

I also learned from Martyn that the entire printing facilities – silkscreen, etching, everything – will be moved off the college campus to Archway.

Like that’s fucking convenient.

I mean it was hard enough to be able to print back when everything was in the same building, now the poor students have to trek all the way to Archway.

Failing all these things – no illustration – no print facilities, I would really advise all future applicants that they should not bother going to CSM after 2011. It would be entirely pointless. Anyone can stare at a screen and use Photoshop (look at me, living proof.)

You don’t need to fork out thousands of pounds for poor facilities and a lack of creative choices. Go to Falmouth or the Royal Academy or somewhere else for a proper art course.

The University of the Arts is fucked. There I said it.

Sign it. DO IT!

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/macdillustration/

Monday: Janitorial work

Work in Progress

Foz enlisted the depressed and jobless to assist the re-cleaning of the studio using a masterfully worded email of guilt. Yes re-cleaning. We’d cleaned it before but with the insane chaos of the show build up it all went downhill. We’re just a filthy lot really. Obviously we were only too happy to go back to college and cling viciously to the dregs of our MA (sob). How pathetic we are. No we really are. Came in just in time to polish one table and watch Foz running around recklessly throwing out everything within arms reach. As per his insane mind set of ‘everything-these-bastard-students-have-left-here-must-go’anything he could see was demolished. Even things he did not see were demolished. Much like Godzilla, Fozilla rampaged through the studio causing as much damage and mess as we were attempting to tidy. Skyscraper frames that once towered high about the midget Mexicans lil’ head in the back room were sent crashing to the floor by Fozilla.

“Eeeeaaarrrrrghhhh!” say Fozilla. Grab frame quick oshi! Out to grab frame but frame crash down on floor of Tokyo. What do Fozilla now? Toshio Ah! Megami sama (Oh! My Goodness) Mikazuki toshiba haratoga! Aeeeeiiiii!! “Refresh yourself!!”

Kisama, “You Bastard!” Aeeeeiiiii!! “We cannot beat off the monster help us!”

We scatter like bugs

“Aiiiiiee Aaaah Fozjira coming!” Run Mizuyaki minimara hamata!! Eaaarrrrghh!!

Glass everywhere. Shards flying. Fozjira runs around. (Fozjira was also wearing sandals, running through the shattered glass.)

Fozilla attacks the studio! Glass flies everywhere! Who will save us?

We scavenged through the rest of the studio, picking the carcass of the remains of previous generations of students: Left over art supplies, frames, mint condition watercolor paper and redundant portfolios (Alex’s, which I’ve staked if he doesn’t comes back. Not the work, mind, just the sleeves and case)

Raffled off the best of the goodies (contestant ‘my-name-is-Mike’ won) and tried to convince Georgina and her broken finger that she could easily supply baby GAP for their entire summer collection with the amount of T-shirts she’d printed.

Foz ran off for a tryst with Dan in the dark seductive womb of the photography dungeon. Possibly the most romantic place in college, many a passionate embrace in secret it has witnessed there no doubt. After he ran off, we too ran off to the pub. No, I’m sorry. I lie. I made it sounds like we wanted to leave. It isn’t true. Security forced us to depart. Left to our own devices we’d probably have pottered around till 8. Foz & Dan with his grabable bottom join us in the pub shortly. We have an intense and impassioned debate about

“What constitutes a hippie?”

Do they have to abide by the 70′s versions or can you have contemporary hippies? (i.e Riddhi? Onnalin?) Woodstock days have passed. Gone are the flakey doodes wearing batik, all-organic clothes, ‘jamming’ on acoustic guitars made of rubber bands and empty boxes and saying…

“You gotta love everyone maaan. This is my friend Dave. He’s a tramp I found under the bridge. Check out his vibes doode. They’re awesome maaan……woooah can you feel it?? We’re like, not going to bathe for like, 3 months maaan. All the water we don’t use will save 5 dolphins.”

Now we have Glastonbury. The place where flakey, glamorous, rich people and wannabe grubby ‘bands’ (f*****g ‘bands’) tramp through knee-high sludge of condoms and empty plastic bottles in designer organic wellies, snorting pricey non-organic powders as opposed to smoking on a couch somewhere and professing ‘free love for all’. They still want to save 5 dolphins though, but can’t be bothered really (neither could the hippies).

“Can’t we just like, do some coke?”

“This Crabtree and Evelyn scrub you bought is so amazing. It’s totally organic. But we don’t really have a loo in our tent. Have you seen our tent? All organic, cost me a fortune”

The two seem largely the same to me. Hippies might have professed to hate capitalism but they were just lazy, smelly, organic obsessed slackers permanently attending music fests. The Glastonbury lot also seem to perpetually attend music fests, do non-organic drugs and drone on about organic everything else. The difference being that they’re avid consumers, openly capitalist and bathe far more frequently (not at Glastonbury though) Apparently I’m wrong. Dan undresses Foz with his eyes as we discuss why men shouldn’t wear Speedos (my father *shudder*) and never ever wear a G- string (NOT my father, thank god). As soon as Mike, Bruna, Anna, leave all the sex & potty talk ceases immediately and we have the most coherent, relatively non-sexual drunken conversation I’ve had in the past year. It was actually about art (the horror) and illustration (ohmahgawdmen!) and photography (like, what the…?) Although at one point, am told by Dan that he’s surprised I’m not a bigger slut and by Foz that I’d make a great one night stand. Not sure in what light to view this rather vague statement of confidence. I think I’m hanging around too many boys. Dan and I try hard to coax Foz into staying for another drink but he demurs like a light weight wimp. Work whine whine, wife whine whine, my life outside this pub whine whine etc. Dan throws a massive strop immediately.

“Your wife your wife!! Always your wife! Thats all you care about! I give and I give but it means nothing to you doesn’t it??? I hate you!!” *sob sob* “Baby, why must you do this every time?? You know how I feel about you…..the missus is the missus, what would people say? We’ve been over this honey…. you said you understood about my wife!” “Well things have changed. I’ve changed. I’m not going to be your photography bimbo anymore, thats all I am to you isn’t it?? Just some quickie in the committee meeting??? ” “…..But I have a big job to do tomorrow, darling, listen to me…” “Fine! Fine!! I’m going to the loo! But one day I won’t come back!” *SOB*

Foz and I scarpered away quickly before Dan got back from the loo. I nod my head and tut in sympathy as I console Foz on the way to the tube. Relationships can be so complicated sometimes.

I have to say, this picture makes me so hot.

Monday: Georgina’s Birthday

Georgina's Birthday. The highlight of our sad sad MA-less lives.

Simeon bowled like an old pro, the 3 steps and all that. Anna was lobbing the bowling balls across the alley like it was tennis. I distinctly heard the alley crack under the weight at some point.

Illustrators being very perverse creatures means that by the end of our girls vs boys match Anna somehow won even beating professional 3 stepper Simeon. I managed to get 4 double zero’s in one game. I’m almost proud. It took a lot of effort on my part to miss so often.

The ex turned up tired as hell. We were both a bit jumpy I suppose at this point. I was forced to go out and smoke now and then. (Fucking smoking ban. I hope they all die.)

It was a lot like being back in Mumbai, smoking in the rain again. The Xaviers class was divided into smokers and non-smokers. One of the reasons I became a smoker was because the people I’d rather talk to (and one cutie in particular) would stand next to the buniya-wala where the dean couldn’t spy them, and puff away on Bensons. All the cool people would be outside gossiping as they smoked while all the non smoking losers sat inside sucking eggs. I’ve never enjoyed egg sucking personally.

Foz turned up at 8ish and immediately the place where we were sitting started to flood. Curious that. Martyn, always minutely observant, claimed it smelled like spunk. I cannot confirm such a claim but will defer to Martyn’s expert opinion.

The ex had been reading my blog during our little ‘sabbatical’……and where once Leo & the Mexican midget were considered ‘threats’ (anyone I blog about) they have now switched to: Onnalin, Fer, Dan and Foz. (Leo really? come on now, give me some credit)

Onnalin began by consolidating this bad opinion by telling the ex that we had a smooch some time ago ‘haha’ and then by saying something else EVEN STUPIDER during a drunken moment (always) which at the time really, really, really PISSED ME OFF!!!!!!!

I was really banging on the keys back there but I feel calmer now. *deep breath deep breath*

The ex was mildly offended of course, but got over it but I still haven’t if I’m honest.

I feel inwardly seething.

*deep breath deep breath*

Simeon leaves early because his girlfriend has ‘a nice bit o’ fish to cook for him’ and so off he goes. Sheesh.

I’ve never left an evening because of fish. Work yes, tired yes, hung over yes, fish no no no.

Foz shake his head in disapproval. Clearly all his influence and 2 year MA training hasn’t worked on Simeon.

I’m informed that my blog is losing its edge Foz says. Clearly I haven’t blogged about him enough already. Yes yes, he agrees, there isn’t enough about him lately. I order him to yell at someone just for blogertainment-value-for-money. He doesn’t comply. I’m deeply disappointed. I really look forward to random people getting bollocked.

How I can blog about anyone unless they’re around on a weekly basis, aren’t pretending to be gay (or really being gay) and don’t even yell at people anymore?

Those are my priorities: Being gay, yelling and just hanging around. (I’m easily pleased what can I say?)

Sigh. I sense a decline in my readership. Leo is a classic example. Only comments when I mention him, complains in a hurt tone when I don’t.

The ex and I were being all cuddly-wuddly and shit all evening. It made me slightly nervous because we’re usually relatively discrete (relatively). At some point we did have a slight glitch in the works and the ex went off home before me. I blame it all on nerves really, I felt pretty tense. Shortly after I went home and all was well.

Mostly.

PS – Georgina got her fingers rammed in between 2 bowling balls. Martyn and Adam resident medics both insisted it was fine. Broke in 2 places apparently.

 

Our Shoes

Last Weeks Delayed Posts: Sunday

Left Hastings after lunch in a very odd hotel on Coombe Beach. The diners on average were generally over 80. The waiters on average were generally under 20 and all Polish. Trying to get our drink order right needed slight maneuvering and a lot of translation.

A very hefty polish woman ran off suddenly as Ashok was telling her something about what my great aunts would drink. The great aunts and co. hadn’t arrived yet as anyone eligible for a free bus pass had gone in one car that had got a bit fuddled and lost along the way.

The hefty woman came back equally abruptly with a pad and began to scribble stuff down furiously.

After watching Gordon Ramsay nearly all this month I feel I know a lot about cooking. Sure, I burn stuff, I set fire to woks, I eat from the microwave but still, I like to imagine that due to the wonder of TV I know a lot about cooking now.

The starter at this place in Bexhill, land of the aged, was a hollowed out melon with mango sorbet and strawberry sauce. Why in a hollowed melon?? Why? And why strawberry sauce? Why a pudding as a starter? I don’t get it.

I was fortunate enough not to order the melon. Duck pate with cranberry’s was my choice. It was a giant slab of duck pate and only 3 small round crackers. Ladling out the pate onto the crackers required military precision. At some point all the kids decided to swap starters and ladled out Cyrus’s chicken soup in 2 empty melon husks.

After that pseudo posh starter we then had to stand in a que like good school children for our mains, lining up behind a large table of pensioners. I mixed up all my sauces and meats just because I could. Beef with cranberry sauce, horseradish with carrots.

Took the early train back and Onnalin called to tell me to come to Gordon’s Wine bar near Charing Cross. Conveniently my train ended at Charing Cross so in part the decision was already made for me, encouraged as well, by a very relaxing yet rather dull weekend of mostly drinking hot chocolate, re-reading ‘The Secret Garden’ and arguing with the oldies about why gay adoption isn’t wrong.

Onnalin picked me up from Ch. X, looking very stylish but staring up in the air in a vaguely wasted way (and she was). We sat in Gordon’s ‘outside area’ designated for all the evil smokers to be cordoned off in (anti-smoking wankers. I hate them all, twats).

There were 3 other Thai girls and one Thai boy called Bier drinking wine only joking and talking in Thai. Kurt and I sat there like lemons, but smoking in a very cool and nonchalant manner as all smokers do.

Anna mentioned that since her boyfriend is trying to quit he’s come to realize that no non smoker has done any thing worthwhile or creative. Winston Churchill – smoker, Rolling Stones – smokers, Beatles – big time smokers, The Rat Pack – Smokers.

Then you look at Donny Osmond, he doesn’t smoke. Thats what I’d ask anyone who doesn’t smoke. Do you want to grow up like Donny Osmond? Well? Do you?? Even kids must have the question put to them: Children you never ever should want to grow up into an Osmond. Here have a fag. You’ll be a lot less cranky before bedtime.

Most of the conversation for the next hour was largely in Thai, with a lot of Thai slurring from Onnalin and Jha who kept saying “Cheers!” every 5 minutes and refilling everyones glasses. Jha had just come over from Thailand with Onnalin’s brother and didn’t drink much. So naturally, Onnalin started breaking her in promptly.

By the end on an hour and after only 3 glasses of wine, Jha had passed out in her chair looking quite content, woke up suddenly when the chair started to tip over, then was joyfully sick. We decided taking her to the Blues Bar would be useless and took a cab back to Brixton instead. Onnalin insisted we go to another bar, must against my will and wallet I was coerced into agreeing.

We finally get back to Brixton after Onnalin gives me a long speech on how she admires the surrealists so much because they all got wasted so much but produced so much work. All we do nowadays is get wasted and create nothing.

I begged to differ. I do plenty of things aside from being wasted.

Jha has to go home and be put to bed. We forget about the other bar and Kurt and I take a bus home once we find its closed.

I’d rather drink at home anyway. At least I can smoke. Fucking wanks.

Got home to find roses, lilies and a sunflower on my window sill and my room tidied, bed made, floor hoovered all by the ex, with a spare set of flat keys tied with a ribbon on my bed. I was surprised and pleased (esp. about the cleaning) and scared shitless simultaneously.

Being a true anti-social I decided to go online and hope someone to talk to would be there instead of having the balls to call anyone.

The ex who was hiding in Monty’s room came out of gingerly to face me and we had a nice talk finally. Kiss and made up etc. etc. you know the drill.

Sunday ended quite well for the most part.

Aside from the non smoking. Fucking wanks. I’m going to smoke more now just as a point of principle. It also gives me great consolation to think of all the parents who would have gone out to a pub to smoke are now forced to smoke at home, inflicting it on their troupe of shat out children (vile people)

So stick that in your ass government! Ha HAH!!

The Greeks

Amalia called me up the other day out of the blue as I was on my way to Davies St. visa office for a meeting.

She opened with:

“Jaaanneeen. How arrre you? You arrrre a facking slaaat…
Can I have your computer login for college?”

It’s always nice when people call you randomly.

First Day on the Job

My first ever proper job today. I was nervous as hell yesterday.

I had planned on mastering both Flash 8 and Dreamweaver in the space of 24 hours on Monday but instead went to college early to pick up my remnant stuff lying around the studio; (frames, portfolio, cards etc).

Spent 10 minutes gossiping with Dan & Foz about their combined gaygiri and drunkenness on Friday.

Spent 15 minutes gossiping with Georgina about Dan & Foz’s gaygiri and drunkenness on Friday.

Foz and Dan came back to continue the gossip but the unfortunate arrival of a very stroppy Marios who wanted to rant about his poor marks sent the bastards scurrying away leaving me to grudgingly listen to his rubbish. I don’t care Marios, please go away.

He finally left and Martyn came back in for a gossip and a good ol’ bitch about Athier and Lisa.

I goaded Onnalin to come in so we could share a cab back to Brixton. The cabbie was cranky, we had her giant cardboard case over all the seats, the boot piled high with frames and a yellow birdcage secreted somewhere.

We then spent all afternoon watching Gordon Ramsay yell “FUCK” at people and then take off his shirt. Onnalin resists his sexiness for 2 episodes but by the 3rd one is has caved. Monty and Anders spent all afternoon cooking while we just watched people cook and then got fed.

Back to the job:

The first 2 hours of the day were spent in 2 board room meetings where the UFO lookalike, space-age, conference phone refused to work while all around purely technical people; web developers, software developers, program testers, IT managers were yelling out things like

“Hit it with something! Turn it off and then on again. Try pulling on that cable….Whats that wire for? Maybe someone unplugged it. Why is the mouse broken?”

All the bosses of this company are in Leeds while all the workers are in London. When the conference finally got moving, there was an hour of techie jargon with 50 varieties of acronyms flying back and forth at which point I started daydreaming of Geoff.

(it wasn’t Geoff but does that matter really?)

Have so far successfully navigated through my day. It wasn’t as technical as I thought. Made a very dubious and foundation level animation for the boss’s boss but was told not to put too much effort into it before it was approved. It was meant to be very ‘dynamic’ but instead looks quite floppy.

Spent a good part of the day secretly emailing people out of pure boredom and downloading msn.

Only one person writes back promptly (clearly they have no life either) but and as I read it my boss walks by and happens to view those immortal lines ”tubbies fucking”.

Thus begins my post-MA, distinction-level career.

 

Martyn & Simeon earlier in the week: Chandos. Simeon makes it a point of practice to match with at least one person in the class.

The Night After the Night Before

Hi everyone,
Hope all is well.
I just wanted to congratulate all of you on getting your MA’s.
Its been a real pleasure for me this year.
(awwww…………………He’s lying.)
I hope to see some of you at the degree ceremony.
(For a drink any excuse will do, even a graduation)
If I can be of any help to you in the future please just give me a call.

Kind regards
your friend
Foz

P.S can you clear your work and stuff from the studios as soon as you can.
(How mean. I don’t want to leave yet!)

Simeon says Foz must have a death wish by telling us we can call him. He’ll never get rid of us. Poor bastard.

This blog is bad enough but imagine everyone calling him when they’re drunk?

“Fooooooz!…..We loooove you! We do.. we do! We looooove yoooou.. Your the besht, just the besht and we jusht wanned to shay.. to say …to shay? no… we do we do yeah so…. ok bye”

Anyway I’m not calling, why can’t he call?

Nobody calls me *sniff sniff I’m so unloved* except Leo drunk and my parents sober.

Although Leo calling drunk is pretty much the same as the quote above. The only other function of my phone is to tell me the time (which is wrong in any case) and to wake me up.

I feel this sudden urge to drink until my liver catches up to Onnalin’s. I want to go to loud clubs with thumping bass and grinding gay boys and surly androgynous girls until every rational thought is wiped out from my brain.

I’ll be back to B.A. thinking shortly I’m sure.

My body can’t seem to recover from Friday night. Saturday I forced myself out of bed and into town for Charis birthday party, my liver, kidneys and lungs shrieking in rage at me.

Monty asked me if I’d been crying, my eyes were so bloodshot.

“NO!! I have not!!”

I indignantly respond.

“I’ve been drinking.”

I say proudly.

I feel more pain and loss in the end of my 2 yr romance with Catton street than anything else. If the M.A. was a relationship then at least I’ve been dumped with a distinction. Small consolation though, I feel very anti-climatic on the whole.

Charris’s birthday was fun aside from him insisting I take back one half of a present I bought for him (hugely insulting!) Mr. Habib drank 4 glasses of wine, got really drunk by 8 o clock and then fell over on his way to argue with a bouncer. The rest of us mostly drank orange juice aside from Lina who got very sleepy by 1:00 am.

Old age has well and truly set in for us Charis.

My left knee started to crack and click and ache while walking up the stairs to Kardo’s flat where we ate shwarmas, hummus and a really strange tabuleh purchased on Edgware Road.

Sadi accompanied by Charis dropped me home all the way from Ladbroke Grove to Brixton in his plush new car. He plans to deck it out with 10 speakers and a bluetooth stereo, he confesses (Sadi’s a boy who won’t be, can’t be satisfied with anything less than 10 speakers)

I wish we could have just kept driving all night listening to dance music. I was almost sorry to be home. Fell asleep as my head touched the pillow.