The Gold-Star Puffin School

On a visit home for a weekend I got the opportunity to go and watch my brother drum in the school concert. By pure chance, I've never missed a single one. He thinks it's because I make an effort, but in truth they just correspond nicely. I hope he doesn't mind me talking about him. In fact he'd probably just grin all funny and point it out to my Dad. Who will then mind.

Because the school he used to be at only catered for Einstein's grandchildren, he got moved to a private school. I managed to get through the crap school. I did have to lie about my surname and a bit of German heritage to do that, but I survived. I've made this school seem like a temple, but in comparison to the private place my brother's at now, it's a converted council flat. I'm talking electric gates and personal parking spaces. With names on. It even had big double doors I was impressed I could even open. I enjoyed the power of opening those doors. It was like that bit in Lord of the Rings when Aragorn bursts through the castle gateway all bloodied up and fit with sweat dripping from his brow. I was neither of those, but my hair was quite long at the time, so I swished it a bit as I went through to reception. That felt good.

I noticed very quickly that this place was nothing like the school I was brought up in. The first thing I spotted was a kid playing something really fancy on the piano showing off to his friends. In my school, you do not "show off" by playing the piano. That doesn't get you girls. That gets you floored. In my school, it was all about who had the biggest cereal tattoo. Or who had the shiny Charizard we all f*cking wanted. That's what gets you the kudos points. Not being that kid who looks like the gay one out of Same Difference. In the "viewing gallery", I saw a small child reading gold-star Puffin books. Those gold-star Puffin books are top of the range for kids and you had to be about nine to get them. Hence why they're gold. This kid was definitely not nine. I know looking young, because I look young myself. You could draw a beard on him and giving him a pension, but I know a foetus when I see one. In my school, those books he was reading were so untouched you could smell that "new book smell" from across the lunch room. If you were lucky and pulled the right strings, you could even break the virgin book spine as you opened the first page. That crack was gold dust. Nothing massive, just a little click. Brilliant.

Activities like playing piano and reading were things we were forced to do as kids. And even then it was rare. I remember being gathered in the hall once, along with everybody else in our red jumpers and knobbly knees. We were given nothing nothing more than a sheet of A4 paper. We had a paper plane throwing contest. Looking back on that now, I realize how crap the teaching must have been to resort to that, but honestly it was alright most of the time. I thought with all my strength and might I could launch it and it would soar. Like NASA puts brute force into launching shuttles into space. I was naive, and a rubbish shot, so it ended up in the back of Tara Norris' head. I didn't win, but I got a "special award" for the amusement. In all honesty, I had two years earlier stolen her bobble hat and hidden it in the gym cupboard. I thought I had such a sneaky way out suggesting "Ooh, why don't you look in with the basketballs, they might be in there?", because they'd think I'd used my initiative and not actually nicked it. They clocked me. They clocked me so good.

What had happened at my brother's new school was that they'd looked at all these fun activities and put a big ole' red pen through em. They were probably right, but as pointless as they were they still understood that kids were kids. I'd actually found myself in an overly expensive nursery for wankers. These children were actually being nursed to be wankers. I really hope my brother doesn't turn out as one of those. He's not touching a piano or a gold-star Puffin book. I'd rather him be illiterate. He's doing a good job so far, because he's still learning drums. And that's cool. And he's good as well. He'll survive the machine.

Public Affairs? Well then they're not "affairs" then, are they.

Ok so I'm in a fairly crap lecture about politics. I understand fully and comprehensively that it's quite important, and with an exam after Easter I should really pay attention. But I'm not. Life is harsh, I suppose. If you need proof that I'm genuinely in a boring period of my life, here is a photograph. Of course, even this isn't that interesting.



I told you it was crap.

I spent my afternoon once again exploiting elderly people in the cause of entertainment. The radio feature I play on the Nerve FM breakfast show (CHEAP PLUG: www.nerveradio.com) is called "Gerioke" - Geriatric Kareoke. This is copyrighted, but it's not as if you'd ever nick it. It's got ageist and maybe slander written all over it. The lyrics they have to read are "edgy" which basically means seedy. It wasn't me that wrote em, so technically we're out of the libel woods. It even has a crap jazz bed I nicked off Garageband too. My dear friends Charley and Zoe were doing a wee bit of filming for their TV packages anyway, so it's not as if I strolled in on my own.

I'd very nearly forgotten since the last "Gerioke-sesh" how many odduns you get in the town I'm in. Filming them I imagine would have been a lot worse, but the camera was placed between a pub and a betting shop. After I got my bum slapped by an elderly man, we took the editorial decision to shift to outside a charity shop. That didn't help much, because old drunks can still walk. Top him up, he clearly isn't tanked enough if he's following us.

Considering I'm actually in a lecture at the moment, I feel I should add something of political value to this to justify this to frowning parents and try-hard geek-peers. Barack Obama's passing of the Health Care bill has shocked many. They say it's because they don't trust an average NHS system. Personally, I think they're just sh*t scared of being a Brit. I'll be putting that top hat down then, dear sir. And good day to you too, squire.

Here is a slightly interesting video from people who don't want to be British. In my day, this was racism:



Ironically, this guy in the chair is actually the exact person who looks like he has no money, but will need to get hold of it pretty soon if he wants to not die. Argument enough to have some insurance you won't die, surely? Apparently not. Nevermind then?

Shaun White Got Nuddin

My family decided to go on Holiday to Austria whilst I'm here. They knew full well I would be presenting the radio show and so I couldn't go.

Just a quicky showing off how well my brother is getting along. Hes good, but I'm gutted I couldn't go. It's not big. It's not cool. But it is cold:

Nervous FM

So today I presented the breakfast show with comedian Phill Jupitus (who's name I always have to type twice. I want to type it Juptius the rest of the time). I've been waking up early for the last couple of days trying to shift my sleeping pattern back from 3am-11am to around 11pm-6am. For a student, this is like asking a donkey to jump off a bridge. They tend not to like that. Anyway here Philly is:

That's it, Phill. Shoot us with your fame and comedy. It's rather good.

The show itself went really well. It did consist of Guy-bashing for most of it, but we did establish that my usual co-host Jess Bracey is actualy Bambi. This implies that her mother is dead, which she's not because she got a shoutout just afterwards. Phill said that she had antlers, but then we corrected ourselves, because only male deer have those. We looked intellectually silly for that. I reckon Stephen Fry laughed (I'd imagine deeply so) and we retracted back to our musical refuge of weird modern tracks mixed with his James Bond remixes from the 90's. I've still got that CD. He never asked for it back. If anybody asks I'll say he gave it to me as a gift.

I should have got an early night last night. Like REALLY early, say 8ish? But it was my housemate's birthday, so I couldn't go to bed too early. That would have deemed me rude. We made her a cake and videoed it before going out for a quick birthday drink. When the 50 minute content has been cut down to around five minutes-ish then I'll shove it on here.

If you'd like to listen to the breakfast show, it's on Nerve FM every weekday between the 15th-26th March 2010. The website is here: www.nerveradio.com. Pretty simple, really.

Orange Hair. Orange Voice. Orange Everything.

So I heard today that Bradders (or Charlie Clements) is the voice of the new Orange adverts. There's a bit of mixed reaction about the strawberry blonde wet blanket doing this. I've looked all over the internet for this advert but I think it's so new that really the internet hasn't been bothered yet. I'd give him a shot. After dying, most Eastenders superstars end up working in an East End supermarket, so good on him for having SOMETHING to do. Plus, he's not Dirty Den. You can't die and then come back to life. That's cheating. But I think he gets double points if you do something after that corresponds to your hair colour?

Here's an awesome little tribute to Bradley, back when he had more hair and that:



See. You think you'll live without him, but when Stacey the slag's tottering around we'll want 'im back. On a highly convenient related note, I'm looking for an iPhone that works on a pre-existing Orange SIM. Is this possible? Is it good to go that I can get unlimited texts and the internet on this piece of machinery without paying like, a gazillion bajillion squids for it?

I do feel a little left out that EVERYBODY else in the world (even the kids in Africa) are more likely to have an iPhone than me. It's OK, you have malaria, but Guy's f*cked. He can't send e-mails whilst on Twitter. Oh, good I feel better now.
Bright side point: I take consolation in the awful PR move of putting Macy Gray in the ad. I haven't heard from her in about a decade. I didn't like the song, image (racism wasn't present in this Mr. Ben) and anything to do with her. She missed our generation entirely.
Honestly? I thought she was dead.

That Was Such A Nice Garden?

I thought I'd take the opportunity with a combination of insomnia and insanity to write down whatever I'd feel like writing. It's supposed to sooth the soul and bring out our deepest and sometimes darkest character. I'm interested to see if my good side comes out.

In my garden I know I have a fence. This fence represents a boundary both physically and mentally. It's quite a nice fence and it's painted lots of different colours, as if Jason Donovan had been strung up on it several times. Or at least enough to cover the surface area of the fence which can be seen from inside the house.

Sometimes people break into my garden through this fence because I've failed to maintain it well enough. Sometimes I do let them in though for a nice chat and a bit of tea. I take note very well of what they want because it can make all the difference. It's all about first impressions these days. If they knock over my Bonzai's I'm not too impressed because it takes a lot of dedication and love to make them grow into lovely little trees. They're not like those lazy, big oafish oaks in the corner hogging all the sun, and grumbling because it's "windy today". It's windy most of the time- your job is to block the wind out.

People that break into my garden are really quite nice people underneath. Occasionally one will be a bit rude and I have to decide whether they should be allowed to stay in my house or not. If they are, I keep my eye on them by cutting eyeholes in my newspaper and staring through the Financial Times at them over breakfast. They seem alright after that and desperately willing never to try and push my hospitality further than it can go. It's a new experience for me. If I decide they shouldn't stay, I make sure they have a safe passage back home, because I am nice like that and don't want to see more than one person hurt today. It gets boring after a while.

So I open my conservatory window and climb out because as always, I will lose the key. I know where it is, but I know full well them burglars have more than likely stolen it to get in at their leisure at a later date. You must be careful of the patio chairs and dining table on the way out though. They've got a bit rusty from all the horrible English weather and the last thing you want to be catching is blood poisoning. I get up on the fence and sit there. It's a very thin fence, and it's not very comfortable. I need a pillow or a cushion to make my life that bit more humble. I can see them on the sofa through the back window, but I never have the time, dedication or effort to jump down either way and grab one. I'm hoping I don't fall down off the fence onto next door's Begonia. Everybody knows they look and smell nice, but not when they've been squashed. It wasn't even me that did that. I did run over a Christmas tree once though. It wasn't even fucking Christmas.

You could say those bastards that broke in did it, trampling all over that lovely Begonia. It was so good before, but I think it's developed thorns now, and that's not child-friendly at all. I'm contemplating taking the initiative and cutting down the plant in its entirety, but I know that it'll take time to decide even though everyone says it's perfectly fine to do so. I'm not going to pull it up unless I know it'll be OK there in that patch after. I did find weeds. Lots of em. So I've got rid of those, because everybody hates a leech.