Modernity. A word which, no matter how much they persistently claim to have achieved, will never spring to mind when thinking about the BRA sixth form centre. Why? It just flipping isn't.
Apparently, they seem to think that if they reiterate their point often enough, we'll all be brainwashed into thinking that it's 'a top class facility'. I think they have a point. I mean, what could be more top class than a wobbly table that you have to balance with a stray chess piece which you find lying around the floor somewhere? What could be more luxurious than unexpectedly falling through the springless cushion of a chair that's possibly more broken than the Irish economy? And, once you've paid a pound for a cup of hot chocolate that actually mildly resembles a cup of finely sifted mud and froth that is virtually tasteless until you reach the wad of sediment lining the bottom of the cup, you'll feel so regal that after using the MIDDLE SIXTH ONLY! toilets, you'd half expect the queen to come in and wipe your backside for you, whilst she weeps tears of joy at the sheer privilege of it all. Oh, and you'd look down on her while she was doing it.
But sadly, I've made it sound better than it really is. It's disappointing, the way they present it to us, and the reality in comparison. It's like they've promised to give us a chocolate bar, but in actual fact, we've recieved a thinly veiled lump of excrement. However, it's a thinly veiled lump of excrement that we're apparently supposed to keep highly polished and fragrantly scented, in order to keep ourselves sufficiently busy enough to not realise it's a load of crap. Never mind the broken furniture, the widely scattered chess pieces and the occasional stray cup of Oh Dear Goodness What Is That, what would the peasants think of us if they saw this litter?
As it turns out, it's not the peasants we have to worry about (although it is jolly good fun to take potshots at them with our hunting rifles of privilege, eh what?). No, as it turns out, what you really have to watch out for is Albert Creighton. Normally he's calm. Serene, even. However, if even so much as a waft of litter reaches his finely tuned nostrils, a nuclear reaction begins in his mind, bottles up and eventually bursts out in a massive explosion of famine, war, pestilence, and generally not being able to sleep because the sixth form centre is dirty. Litter makes him an angry, angry man, kids. In fact, if a newborn baby seal dropped a bottle cap in front of his children, he'd probably waste no time in pulling out a handgun, shooting it fourteen times in the head and dropping its barely breathing carcass down a disused well for being a bad influence.
And don't even think about saying the cleaners will clean it up. That is not their job. No, contrary to popular belief, they are actually paid to stand around, smoke, and occasionally backhand first years for kicks.
And if you don't like it, you can go somewhere else.
Tuesday 30 November 2010
Thursday 12 August 2010
Teaspoons, knives, and rusty hacksaws
Okay, I have done nothing exciting or of note at all today, so I shall instead focus on the mundane things I've been seeing all day on the internet.
Q: Where would you go to find a steady supply of mind-numbing crap that could make a coma patient fall asleep?
A: Facebook.
Especially the adverts. Take this hilarious example. There is an advert for a game called Frontierville. The picture for the advert features a bear, mouth open, eyes ablaze, getting ready to maul a hunter who is wearing what looks like a dead racoon on his head. In my mind's eye, the ensuing mauling would be rather hilarious, if it were not for the picture's accompanying caption: "Can you Bear it?"
No, Facebook, I can't bear it. Not only do your puns make me wish I was doing something more productive (like slowly gouging out my brains with a teaspoon), I notice that you've patronisingly capitalised the word bear, as if people who actually play your game will become so braindead (not that it matters to me, I'm washing off the teaspoon as I write this) that they won't get the joke unless you scream in their faces "Look! A BEAR! Can you bear it? Cuz it's a BEAR LOL". But, in fairness, my mind just isn't as sharp during the summer, so thank you for spoon-feeding it to me.
In other news, I was feeling quite bored today. I don't know what you do when you get bored. Perhaps you make yourself a nice cup of tea, or maybe you blast music, or do a crossword. Of course, if I did that, it wouldn't be worth writing about. No, I turn to Youtube, and consequently, I find that I've spent a good hour and a half watching entertaining videos with titles like, "This Idiot Hurts Himself, Check It Out", "News Reporter Touches 6000 Volt Electric Fence" and "World's Worst Knife-Throwing Accident".
Actually, that last one isn't as funny as it sounds, until Philip Schofield, in an attempt to draw attention away from the assistant's bloodied face, shouts to the audience, "Did anyone count how many knives actually hit the board?" Now, I'm all for drawing attention away from something like that, but good grief, the girl's just recieved a knife to the head, don't ignore her!
Oh, and if you're feeling a bit low, you might want to check out this tasty little video. I laughed out loud at it, not just "*Chuckle* That's funny." but a full "Wahahaha, BAM!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_PC-s_LyiE
See? Did you laugh out loud? ... no? ....... that's just me then?
Ah well. Anyways, coming next week, Serialkillerville, the advert for which shows a man with a beard in a hockey mask running around chasing women with a rusty hacksaw, accompanied with a caption saying "You'll never believe what I just Saw."
Well, probably.
Q: Where would you go to find a steady supply of mind-numbing crap that could make a coma patient fall asleep?
A: Facebook.
Especially the adverts. Take this hilarious example. There is an advert for a game called Frontierville. The picture for the advert features a bear, mouth open, eyes ablaze, getting ready to maul a hunter who is wearing what looks like a dead racoon on his head. In my mind's eye, the ensuing mauling would be rather hilarious, if it were not for the picture's accompanying caption: "Can you Bear it?"
No, Facebook, I can't bear it. Not only do your puns make me wish I was doing something more productive (like slowly gouging out my brains with a teaspoon), I notice that you've patronisingly capitalised the word bear, as if people who actually play your game will become so braindead (not that it matters to me, I'm washing off the teaspoon as I write this) that they won't get the joke unless you scream in their faces "Look! A BEAR! Can you bear it? Cuz it's a BEAR LOL". But, in fairness, my mind just isn't as sharp during the summer, so thank you for spoon-feeding it to me.
In other news, I was feeling quite bored today. I don't know what you do when you get bored. Perhaps you make yourself a nice cup of tea, or maybe you blast music, or do a crossword. Of course, if I did that, it wouldn't be worth writing about. No, I turn to Youtube, and consequently, I find that I've spent a good hour and a half watching entertaining videos with titles like, "This Idiot Hurts Himself, Check It Out", "News Reporter Touches 6000 Volt Electric Fence" and "World's Worst Knife-Throwing Accident".
Actually, that last one isn't as funny as it sounds, until Philip Schofield, in an attempt to draw attention away from the assistant's bloodied face, shouts to the audience, "Did anyone count how many knives actually hit the board?" Now, I'm all for drawing attention away from something like that, but good grief, the girl's just recieved a knife to the head, don't ignore her!
Oh, and if you're feeling a bit low, you might want to check out this tasty little video. I laughed out loud at it, not just "*Chuckle* That's funny." but a full "Wahahaha, BAM!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_PC-s_LyiE
See? Did you laugh out loud? ... no? ....... that's just me then?
Ah well. Anyways, coming next week, Serialkillerville, the advert for which shows a man with a beard in a hockey mask running around chasing women with a rusty hacksaw, accompanied with a caption saying "You'll never believe what I just Saw."
Well, probably.
Wednesday 11 August 2010
Everything in Scotland is deep fried, battered, or both.
Sitting on a boat at 6.45 AM, I am looking forward to the day ahead. We're setting sail for the Loudon Castle theme park in Scotland. Which is just as well, because Northern Ireland is incredibly bleak today. In fact, there's enough rainwater pouring down the back windows to completely justify me smiling at random fellow passengers and cheerfully asking how well they can swim. So, let's hurry up and get to Scotland, because whatever we find there, it's bound to be better than this, right?
Had I actually asked that question at the time, I would have wholeheartedly believed that I had put a jinx on Scotland, because upon arrival, Scotland seems horribly similar to Northern Ireland. At first glance, you can see a grey sky over a greyer sea, with colossal picturesque chimneys in the distant background pumping grey smoke into the air. In fact, everything seems grey over here. We even have a coach driver with bottomless grey eyes which probably attempt to suck out your soul every time you look at them. Anyway, we have a long coach journey, and, upon arrival, we are told that the we can't leave the bus. My initial thought was that we were part of a bizarre theme-park-themed hostage situation, but it transpired that in Scotland they actually make sure you arrive at least 45 minutes before a place opens, thus giving time for the depressingly grey sky to break down and start crying.
By the time we actually get off the bus (which, being typically Scottish, had an air-con system, but one which didn't work, no doubt because the vents were blocked with lard) the sky had stopped crying, but it still hung around looking fairly miserable. When we reached the ticket check in box, we were greeted by a bloke who was clearly fed up with his job. In fact, he was so visibly disgruntled that he looked like he would be just at home bludgeoning orphans to death with a deep-fried, battered haggis as he would be selling tickets. In fact, looking at the other employees, they all seem so happy that you can almost tell that they wish the ground would swallow them up, to be digested in Scotland's stomach for a period of no less than 7000 years.
When we got through the ticket gate, the rides didn't actually start for another half hour, so we made our way over to the lunch area, to have our packed lunches. As I opened my bag, I found a piece of positive nastiness from back home in Northern Ireland: cheese sandwiches. Since NI and Scotland are so vastly similar, the only way I could tell it wasn't from Scotland was because it wasn't battered and fried. In fact, the only positive thing about lunchtime was Mark Higgins getting disorientated and attempting to eat a cookie with his forehead (and that actually happened).
Now, as you may know, I have a morbid fear of heights. No matter how much the human body was designed to do, it certainly wasn't designed to fall a hundred feet to the ground. This explains why on earth it takes three of my best friends to coax me reluctantly onto the Barnstormer. This colossal tower flings you upward into the air at high velocities, and once it reaches the top, plummets you straight back to earth at similar speeds, the resultant force lifting you out of your seat, held in place only by an over-the-head brace. In fact, it looks like such a death trap that I was surprised that you were held on the ride by seats and not nooses. My fear isn't helped by the fact that before you are sent hurtling to your inevitable death, a farmer says things like 'Be very scared, ha ha ha' in a voice which I can only picture as belonging to the kind of sociopath who gets kicks out of firing nailguns at kittens. In fact, I'm so busy screaming 'You git, you absolute git' at this invisible farmer that I forget to close my eyes before I actually catch a glimpse of how high I'd been flung.
The carousel is equally terrifying. But not for us, for the general public. We've already been around to the face painting shack (I use the word shack loosely, it barely qualifies). So, on the carousel, grannies and nervous mums watch The Joker and several tigers circle around on horseback, proclaiming to be the four horsemen of the apocalypse in voices that Slipknot would be proud of. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to face paint, so instead of being genuinely terrifying, I have to make do with pulling my hood up over my eyes and hope that I look like I'm staring at them from beneath it. Apart from the Barnstormer, it's the most terrifying thing there.
Okay, that was a lie. The most terrifying thing there is the Black Pearl, which combines Barnstormer-esque heights with being upside down, held in by a bar which clamps over your crotch. That last part doesn't matter if you're a girl, but goodness, the guys on it look distinctly uncomfortable. And the morbidly obese look absolutely terrified, you can almost tell what they're thinking. 'I hope this bar holds me in, it only reached my sixteenth chin. And if that change falls out of my pocket when I'm upside down, will I have enough money for another jumbo hotdog?' Of course, they're genuinely more terrified by the thought of the latter. And I can also tell what you're thinking, and you're right. There's no way I got on that ride.
I've been here before, and I really like the bumper cars. But this year, the attendant seems to think he's actually a driving instructor. And a right grumpy one at that. 'You're not wearing your seatbelt properly. Stop that head on bumping. You can't drive as well as him. You should go and jump in front of a steamroller.' Okay, so I made that last one up, but I was surprised he didn't say it. For a game where you're supposed to charge at each other like jealous male buffaloes during mating season, he's strangely concerned about safety.
In short, if you go to Scotland, make a will before you leave. And hope that your family find it before the Scottish authorities, or else it'll be generously loaded with batter, deep fried and eaten.
Had I actually asked that question at the time, I would have wholeheartedly believed that I had put a jinx on Scotland, because upon arrival, Scotland seems horribly similar to Northern Ireland. At first glance, you can see a grey sky over a greyer sea, with colossal picturesque chimneys in the distant background pumping grey smoke into the air. In fact, everything seems grey over here. We even have a coach driver with bottomless grey eyes which probably attempt to suck out your soul every time you look at them. Anyway, we have a long coach journey, and, upon arrival, we are told that the we can't leave the bus. My initial thought was that we were part of a bizarre theme-park-themed hostage situation, but it transpired that in Scotland they actually make sure you arrive at least 45 minutes before a place opens, thus giving time for the depressingly grey sky to break down and start crying.
By the time we actually get off the bus (which, being typically Scottish, had an air-con system, but one which didn't work, no doubt because the vents were blocked with lard) the sky had stopped crying, but it still hung around looking fairly miserable. When we reached the ticket check in box, we were greeted by a bloke who was clearly fed up with his job. In fact, he was so visibly disgruntled that he looked like he would be just at home bludgeoning orphans to death with a deep-fried, battered haggis as he would be selling tickets. In fact, looking at the other employees, they all seem so happy that you can almost tell that they wish the ground would swallow them up, to be digested in Scotland's stomach for a period of no less than 7000 years.
When we got through the ticket gate, the rides didn't actually start for another half hour, so we made our way over to the lunch area, to have our packed lunches. As I opened my bag, I found a piece of positive nastiness from back home in Northern Ireland: cheese sandwiches. Since NI and Scotland are so vastly similar, the only way I could tell it wasn't from Scotland was because it wasn't battered and fried. In fact, the only positive thing about lunchtime was Mark Higgins getting disorientated and attempting to eat a cookie with his forehead (and that actually happened).
Now, as you may know, I have a morbid fear of heights. No matter how much the human body was designed to do, it certainly wasn't designed to fall a hundred feet to the ground. This explains why on earth it takes three of my best friends to coax me reluctantly onto the Barnstormer. This colossal tower flings you upward into the air at high velocities, and once it reaches the top, plummets you straight back to earth at similar speeds, the resultant force lifting you out of your seat, held in place only by an over-the-head brace. In fact, it looks like such a death trap that I was surprised that you were held on the ride by seats and not nooses. My fear isn't helped by the fact that before you are sent hurtling to your inevitable death, a farmer says things like 'Be very scared, ha ha ha' in a voice which I can only picture as belonging to the kind of sociopath who gets kicks out of firing nailguns at kittens. In fact, I'm so busy screaming 'You git, you absolute git' at this invisible farmer that I forget to close my eyes before I actually catch a glimpse of how high I'd been flung.
The carousel is equally terrifying. But not for us, for the general public. We've already been around to the face painting shack (I use the word shack loosely, it barely qualifies). So, on the carousel, grannies and nervous mums watch The Joker and several tigers circle around on horseback, proclaiming to be the four horsemen of the apocalypse in voices that Slipknot would be proud of. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to face paint, so instead of being genuinely terrifying, I have to make do with pulling my hood up over my eyes and hope that I look like I'm staring at them from beneath it. Apart from the Barnstormer, it's the most terrifying thing there.
Okay, that was a lie. The most terrifying thing there is the Black Pearl, which combines Barnstormer-esque heights with being upside down, held in by a bar which clamps over your crotch. That last part doesn't matter if you're a girl, but goodness, the guys on it look distinctly uncomfortable. And the morbidly obese look absolutely terrified, you can almost tell what they're thinking. 'I hope this bar holds me in, it only reached my sixteenth chin. And if that change falls out of my pocket when I'm upside down, will I have enough money for another jumbo hotdog?' Of course, they're genuinely more terrified by the thought of the latter. And I can also tell what you're thinking, and you're right. There's no way I got on that ride.
I've been here before, and I really like the bumper cars. But this year, the attendant seems to think he's actually a driving instructor. And a right grumpy one at that. 'You're not wearing your seatbelt properly. Stop that head on bumping. You can't drive as well as him. You should go and jump in front of a steamroller.' Okay, so I made that last one up, but I was surprised he didn't say it. For a game where you're supposed to charge at each other like jealous male buffaloes during mating season, he's strangely concerned about safety.
In short, if you go to Scotland, make a will before you leave. And hope that your family find it before the Scottish authorities, or else it'll be generously loaded with batter, deep fried and eaten.
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