The search grinds on slowly

I was supposed to meet my landlady-to-be last night, pay her the deposit, and get the key to my new place, which fortuitously enough happens to have two girls from my class already living in it. At the eleventh hour, yesterday, she dials directly into my voicemail (the coward) telling me that she has already lined up other tenants to take the rooms instead, but 'isn't sure' and I 'might still be able to move in'.

Add to this the fact that the previous landlord I left behind actually did end up deducting the week's rent from the deposit of one of the guys I lived with in the house, along with £40 extra, for 'leaving the place in a mess' (Absolute horseshit, it was fine when I moved out), and I'm sure you can understand that landlords aren't my favourite people at the moment.

Tossers.

I have a list of other potentials lined up. I have to sort this out quickly. I start classes proper on tuesday.

I coped with yesterday's let-down by going to the Bulldog, getting hammered, and copping off with a bloke whose personality traits suggests that he may at the very least have Aspergers Syndrome.

There was one or two seriously hot daddies out there last night though. I need to get me one of those now.

Holy war? Holy Fuckwits!

As much as Nazinger has put his foot in it (again), I can't empathise with this shit that is currently going on by way of response.

When someone makes vaguely negative references about Catholicism in a public address, do the bible bashers go batshit fucking mental over it like this?

And now, a nun has been killed in the crossfire. A nun.

Anyone who is in thrall to organised religion to this extent seriously has a screw loose somewhere. As for Islam, anywhere it dominates, it may be noted that the advancement of gay rights, or progressiveness in general, isn't all that high on the agenda.

I don't think I ever gave a second thought to Islam prior to Sept 11th, and after that I was more curious about it than anything. Now, after this and all the shit that went down with the Danish cartoons, I'm just losing patience.

Well, fuck them. If they keep behaving like this, public sympathy for them will be a little bit thinner on the ground the next time they get bombed from the sky. Praise Allah!

As for the protests themselves, you can find an article in the Guardian here, about placards. My favourite slogan?

'Behead those who insult the peace of Allah'.

Thank God! THANK GOD!

The results of the repeats came out early!

I'm going into 3rd year!

Oh joy! Oh rapture!

I'm carrying one module (immunology) which I have to resit when it is examined in the summer again, but other than that, I can progress as normal.

Having now got a soft part-time job sorted for the coming year, all I have to do is find a house, and that's it.

Could it be that things are finally going my way for the first time in ages?

Oooooohhhh!!!!

Alliteration, assonance, and ants

An excerpt from an article in this week's Washington Blade, written by Wayne Beesen (Full text here), via Buff Tuff:

This battle of the male brain is now playing itself out in gay society after paparazzi ambushed pop star George Michael coming out of the bushes following a supposed sexcapade with a pot-bellied peasant. [Was Michael acting differently than other gay men?] My comment:

Back in the 70's days, bathhouses were hugely popular and the gay bars had blackened out windows, creating a virtual cocktail-serving closet. Many of the patrons had to have sex away from home to keep the secret from an unsuspecting wife and kids. Of course, there was a portion of men who did have options but who enjoyed unfettered promiscuity for the thrill.

With time, the ease with which people could come out, combined with the fear of contracting HIV, sharply curtailed the carnal carnival the gay subculture once represented. The whole notion that gay men are more libidinous than straight men is a canard pushed by right wing fanatics in an effort to deny homosexuals basic rights. Indeed, one of the most guarded secrets of gay life is that a good portion of homosexuals are as undersexed as their straight counterparts.

Some of these lonely gay sorts keep long hours at the office and never took time to pursue partners. Others are shy and have great difficulty meeting people. Many men, gay and straight, simply have low sex drives and hardly desire gratuitous encounters. From my observation, a surprisingly large portion of men find the notion of hooking up with strangers totally unappealing. It is not looks nor variety, but intimacy that is the greatest turn on.

For the hyper aggressive men who fancy uninhibited sexual exploration, it is easier being gay because you can always find another man looking for the same thing. But, instead of being blamed for a lack of self-control, most gay men should get a medal for restraint. Heck, if straight men could have sex in public restrooms with women, would we ever again be able to use the facilities for legitimate purposes? If straight men could easily pick up women for sex in parks after midnight, would the grounds be so trodden that ants would become an endangered species?

Yeah, gay men have access to sex if they want it bad enough and are willing to take risks, like George Michael did, but the majority consistently chooses not to recklessly cruise.

George Michael may want his sex, but placing the blame on gay culture no longer reflects modern reality. Given a full range of choices, including marriage, gay life increasingly looks as diverse as mainstream culture with monogamously oriented men finally having the option to choose monogamy.

Won't someone please think of the ants?!

Also, I quite like the way 'carnal carnival' rolls off the tongue.

♫ I'm goin' thru chaa-haanges ♫

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At home again.

My mother turned sixty yesterday.

We threw a surprise party for her in my brother's restaurant. She knew that the immediate family would be there (we had to lure her there with an invite), but she had no idea that all of her friends would be there too, and she got quite a land when she walked in the door and we all shouted 'Surprise'.

It was nice to be able to do it for her. She had been a bit down about it seemed that the occasion would pass without some form of commemoration, so she got a nice lift to see what had been organised for her, and it all went rather smoothly, as long as you discount the fact that some of the balloons that we had put up on the wall seemed to mysteriously vanish into thin air less than 5 minutes after they had been put up. Go figure.

While on the subject of birthdays, this blog turned 2 years old over a month ago, and I completely forgot to mark the occasion! Oh well, here's to another two.

I rang the payroll department of lloyds pharmacy today, and in spite of the fact that the dozy pharmacy manager told me she had faxed them all my details, they still had an incomplete record of my time there. The guy I spoke to on the phone suggested that I should e-mail them the details myself. I'm inclined to agree. I'm going to wait until the money is gone into my account, and then the letter of complaint will be sent. This is nothing short of ridiculous.

I flew home Friday morning. It was by pure chance I got a message the night before from one of the former tenants saying that they had all got their deposits back, and that the landlord's hold over me had effectively been relinquished. The following morning, I had my interview with the college for the job (which I got), and then went back to the house, got my baggage, and legged it. I left the key, along with a note explaining the absence of the week's rent. I signed it 'with deepest regret'. The landlord has tried ringing me twice since I've got back here, but I've just ignored it.

I got shafted for excess baggage at check-in, to the tune of £50. I quietly resolved that it would be for the last time. Oh, and I bag I got for a 'bargain' at £5, split all along the seams as I was heading out the door of my house. I suppose I got what I paid for...

The results of the repeats are out on monday coming. I have a knot in my stomach. Regardless of whether or not I proceed to third year, I think the best thing to do would be to go back to Brighton. My parents don't know that I had to do resits, and everyone is assuming that I'm going to go straight into 3rd year. Not sure what I'm going to do about this. It would be such a balls to lose a year when everything is finally starting to go well (well, insofar as I have a nice well-paid job this year which allows me to catch up on coursework from time to time while I'm doing it). Oh fingers, toes, cock and balls, all crossed...

P.S. I fucking HATE my parent's dial-up internet connection.

Christ ALMIGHTY!

The last few days in brief:

a) In spite of the fact that I put up an ad in Netlet (an online accommodation website for the college) advertising the house, the applications to see it come in slowly. Slowly, like chinese water torture.

b) On Tuesday, the landlord rang me asking me if new tenants had been lined up for the house yet, a mere five days after the previous group left. I tell him no, but I'm working on it. He tells me he needs to get the house filled as quickly as possible, and by being there, he can't let it as an empty 6-bedroomed house. He tells me I'll have to leave by Thursday. I negotiate Friday instead.

c) I had flights booked to go home to Mallow on Monday 11th, as a surprise for my mother's birthday. Because I have to leave the house, I have to reschedule the flights to go out on Friday afternoon instead. Price involved for this change: £100, and the tosser still wants me to pay for the week I've stayed in the house (£75). I'd just do a runner, but then it would come out of the deposit of the girl who sub-let her room to me.

d) The stupid BITCH who runs the pharmacy I worked in for a while, messed up my details on the pharmacy computer. The result? I don't get paid until the end of September, instead of the end of August like I should have been. I've drafted a letter of complaint. I'm going to sit on it for a few days to work out what I should do with it. I want to wring her scrawny neck.

After I got the lovely life-affirming instructions from the landlord, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I rang Daffy, and he turned out to be a big help in all of this. Last night the two of us managed to get most of my stuff moved into storage, and then he showed me his room which he's thinking of renting out. My name is on the list of those being considered.

I feel a bit better now, though the last few days have been shit. I have an job interview tomorrow in the college for something that will last throughout the year, and would be very handy to combine with my course (assuming I get through). The flight home is straight after that. Hopefully I'll be able to combine the two without any disasters.

Compare and contrast exam results

The Irish Leaving Cert:

Minister backs bonus points system for maths and science

Poor marks in maths, science in Leaving cert results

English A-levels:

Record passes revive calls for review of exam system

Maths fuels rise in top grades at A-level


"Learning isn't cool"
A comment from a educational officer, on how the basic skills of reading, writing, and numeracy are absent in some young british school-leavers, after spending 11 years in school. It was part of a documentary focusing on how the labour of Polish immigrants is now often favoured over that of workers native to the UK.

Firstly, to deal with the irish conundrum on poor performance in the technical areas.

I don't know if it was always the way with Irish students - I don't think it was, to be honest - but lately, I've seen people over here on my course from my home country who have refined the skill of rote learning down to a fine art. It's something I've never been able to do for as long as I've been in a classroom. My thing has always been solving, re-ordering, analysing, and processing. It's the reason I steered clear of subjects like Business Studies, Home Economics, Biology, and Geography in school. It is, however, the way that a lot of students now seem to get through second-level (and in particular, points factory grind schools), and I can see it on my course. I can't fault it, because it requires no small work ethic, and can net someone a pass in a subject even when they don't fully understand what it is they're studying, but it can't be applied to technical subjects. If grades in maths and the sciences are lousy (and I think a lot of that really is only hype), then that is because students are choosing to just try and bulldoze their way through it with memorization rather than actually getting to grips with it properly.

I remember in first year in school, I had what was a definite contender for worst teacher of the year instructing us in maths. I failed that subject in the end-of-year tests, along with most of the other students, and the teacher was promptly juggled out of our classroom and into another of poor unfortunates waiting to be bored to tears. If you had said to me then that I would end up netting a good B in honours maths in the leaving cert, I would have laughed, but the following year, I was fortunate enough to get a good teacher in the subject, and after that, I never struggled with it again. What I think the problem is, is that a lot of people aren't pushed beyond this initial hurdle. Once you get over the initial incomprehension with the subject, it's like riding a bike. You never forget. Once it does click with you, you will also find that all other technical subjects like the sciences will come much more easily to you as well. This is where the experts need to start, because I've noticed that amongst students who are of enough ability to regard all subjects as equal, the science and maths subjects are always chosen, because scoring highly in them can be a more straighforward matter in a lot of ways. It beats sweating blood and tears over an Irish essay, only to get a C afterwards, that's for sure.

So, good maths teachers are needed to get to the root of the problem, but then that raises the whole issue of how the HDip for secondary school is a convenient qualification to fall into for unemployed and indifferent college graduates, and that's for another day.

Failing the above, you could always get the artistically minded students to watch Darren Aronofsky's Pi and hope for the best. Or get the girls to watch A Beautiful Mind, on the pretext that it's got Russell Crowe in it.

Now, onto where these subjects can lead you.

Mary Harney, the minister referred to in the second link, has been sharing a bed with industrial interests for quite some time now. It is no surprise to hear her encouraging Irish students to sharpen up their technical skills, for then they become viable candidates for employment with the companies she so desperately wants to keep happy and whose investment in this country she works so hard to secure.

It has been said that in order for companies to invest in Ireland, an adequate 'knowledge base' must be present. For this, you can almost read 'worker drones who are prepared to accept minimal rewards for maximum technical endeavour'. It is often pointed out that there are still lots of jobs to be had in the technical and scientific sector. What the media conveniently forget to mention most of the time, is what the nature of these jobs really are. Working in what can be a intellectually very challenging area, designing or refining a product that will generate the company a great deal of revenue, and then having to negotiate a measly 3-4% pay increase in your yearly performance review. Thank you, but no.

That's not to say that the aforementioned academic areas aren't important. You'd have to be an idiot to think that, but they aren't rewarded all that much in the marketplace. For example, chemists (people who have studied chemistry, as opposed to pharmacy, in case you misunderstand), a group of people who have engaged in the study of a subject that is the amongst the most challenging you may care to mention, and who have at their fingertips knowledge that is fundamental to the life sciences, are not amongst the most well-paid in industry in general, and are amongst the least well-paid in the pharmaceutical industry in particular. Fact. I'd feel a little cheated if I'd struggled with that area for a minimum of four years in higher education, and then found out I'd have to take weekend shifts where I worked to make ends meet. That's the situation that one of the mature students in my class found himself in before he went back to college.

I remember roughly 10 years ago, quite a few courses were introduced in the irish universities that were 'close' to industry. By this I mean the courses were tailored towards the passing on of a body of knowledge specific to various kinds of industry. Materials science was one. Marine science was another. Industrial engineering another. Year after year, those courses were only partly filled, with most of those accepting the offer doing so because they hadn't got anything else, or didn't know any better. By not knowing better, I mean that while the courses were being tailored towards certain kinds of jobs in industry, anyone taking them seemed unaware that they would find themselves in a serious bind if that particular industry dried up years later and those workers found themselves at the mercy of their company, unable to leave. That's what happened in IT (and may well still be happening now, for all I know) when the recession hit there. Wage freezes were brought in by the truckload, and there was sod-all the employees could do about it.

Around about this time, a lot of academics in the developing areas moaned that the candidates with the best grades in science subjects were hightailing it into medicine and the like, and ignoring their areas. At this time of going to press, this is still the case. Applications for science and engineering courses are still falling. There is a reason for this. Healthcare courses, having been around the longest of all, have a proven track record in generating rewards for people once they enter the market. Working for a company as an authority in a particular area generates a lot of money for that company, of which you will only see a fraction.

The fact is, if you choose to work in the corporate technical sector, you need to be aware that it can backfire on you, and this is something that people advocating the study of technical subjects don't really tell you. In a particular area, once the number of employees exceeds the number of jobs out there, you're fucked, and this is precisely why I chose for my career something that is not usually perceived as a hotbed of scintillation: There are almost always more jobs than pharmacists to fill them.

And lastly, but most certainly not least, you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make them drink, and if Irish students are displaying ineptitude in this area, promising them bonus points if they do well isn't really going to achieve much. Ten years ago, it was appreciated that our syllabus in maths was amongst the most rigorous in the world, next to Japan, and then it was overhauled and made a bit easier. We need to leave the course itself alone now, and go after the students themselves.

And now, onto our over-achieving neighbours.

First a hypothetical question for our audience. If you are allowed to pick three subjects to study at any level in school, hands up those of you who are going to pick subjects that they don't really like, or pick subjects they're not really good at.

Are you getting this, everyone? People are doing well at A-levels because they are studying subjects that they are free to opt for!

The A-level system is somewhat unique in that it allows academic specialisation at a stage in education where most other systems would still have a student studying a number of mandatory subjects. In Ireland, you have to do seven subjects at leaving cert level, of which only 3 (in some schools 4) are chosen by the student. In Scotland, you do five subjects for the higher exams. The French/International baccalaureat, while allowing the flexibility of studying a number of subjects to more depth than others, still requires the reading of a broad range of subjects. In Canada, Australia, and America, the situation is roughly the same. Which is better, allowing someone to specialise early in their academic careers, or instil in them some knowledge of a variety of subjects before they leave school, is a moot point. Allowing a technically minded person to ditch the humanities early on can prevent them from achieving a fully rounded education, but requiring them to study them when they don't want to isn't going to develop in them a great appreciation for the subject either.

Then there are the succes stories of the sciences and maths. This is simply because no-one in their right mind is going to opt for these subjects at A-level unless they are at least halfway good at them. These are simply not doss subjects, not by any stretch of the imagination, and only students with their eye on science, engineering or healthcare courses (again, not exactly a cakewalk at third level) will opt for them. It's not that they're easy, it's that the students doing them are prepared to work hard.

It has to be said, though, 3 A-levels is not the most taxing workload. While the level a subject is studied at probably is ahead of the level the same subject would be studied at under a different secondary school system, it is only winning that race by a nose. This is already reflected in the fact that some students are now opting for a fourth A-level, and some even for five. Yet snot-nosed british universites seem to have a problem with recognising any qualification outside of their own. I was required to get an A in leaving cert honours chemistry in Ireland for the course I'm in now, but my English classmates would have got in with a C in A-level chemistry, and I can tell you now, there is not much difference between the two courses.

Having said that, the whole concept of education has changed since the naysayers in their 60s got their degrees. It's next to essential to get some award of higher education under your belt now before entering the jobs market, and a lot of courses, and places on those courses, are springing up to meet this demand. Students leaving school are much more mercenary about education, and have much higher expectations about it now, and are not just accepting it as a privilege. Then there are the grind schools, whose job it is to squeeze every last drop of attainment out of even the most mediocre of students. Is it any wonder people are opting to extend the best days of their life into their twenties?

Anyway, to sum up this part, if British universities are finding it harder to pick out the 'brightest of the bright' then a broader system like the one I've already discussed should be put in place. It should be pointed out that studies correlating performance in universities between bac results and between A-level results showed that graduates with a mediocre bac still tended to do well at third level, whereas graduates with mediocre A-levels didn't. So there it is.

And now, onto the thickos.

I saw a documentary on TV a while back. I can't remember on what channel, but it was about the influx of Polish immigrants into Britain, and how they are addressing the skills shortage being suffered by this country at the moment. The general point being made was that Polish workers were much more reliable, skilled, knowledgeable and hardworking than their indigenous counterparts. Someone should have introduced the presenter to that stupid pharmacist I had to work with, as I since found out that she is Polish as well, but I digress.

It was pointed out some companies loved the Poles because they were willing to work hard for half-nothing. Dissenting opinions were that the companies should pay more in general, the presenter pointed out, but it was time to get realistic: If certain british based companies found they had to raise the wages of their workers too much, they would simply go elsewhere. Of course, it was easy for the presenter to say that, settled cosily in a nice comfortable job with a national television station. I wonder how he'd feel if he had to hoist around cargos of fish all day for £5.10 an hour.

Anyway, the point was made that british students leaving school after their GCSEs were turning out to be getting thicker by the year. A post-secondary technical college was finding that a lot of them lacked the basic skills of literacy and numeracy, and as quoted above, one expert in education said that it seemed that learning wasn't quite the thing to be into in school any more, if you were concerned with your trendiness quotient. The reasons for this are sure to be many and varied, although if I were to point at something and complain like an old-age pensioner, I would say that the veneration of the most inconsequential of celebritys (Preston, Chantelle, Kerry, Paris, fucking premiership footballers) in the popular media does rather send out the message that though you may be as thick as shit and have nothing to say, if you look halfway good (though not with too much character, mind), and are willing to prostitute yourself for a bit of exposure on celluloid, you don't really have to worry about having to string a sentence together as you'll succeed anyway. But maybe that's just me.

There is also the fact that a culture exists over here that where, if it turns out that you're not too intellectually gifted, the GCSEs can be a convenient drop-off point for some now, whereas in other countries, you're generally regarded as more than a bit of a loser if you leave before you final secondary school exams. So if anyone wants to start complaining about people 'coming over and taking our jobs', they would do well to do a little inward examination first.

But lastly, to return to my first point, when are people going to get that university is not about acquiring a set of skills that don't require Einstein's IQ to master? It's about education. Let the fucking corporations train up new employees in the skills they need. They can certainly afford it, and if their habit is to underpay the people that are most important to their success, they may soon find that they have no choice.

FED UP!

The landlord has changed his tune quite a bit, and has basically said that the first large group of people who comes along will get the house. I'm still there, but on borrowed time, and if I want to stay on I have to assemble a group of people to take on the lease in double quick time. There are lots of postgrads looking for rooms at the moment, but they're as sloppy as fuck about replying to messages and noticeboard announcements that I've put up. This is moving too slowly for my liking, and I've started to look elsewhere again.

Of course the racketeer himself told me this the day before my Immunology exam, so that really put me in the frame of mind for success.

Then, there is an estate agent involved in the business of the house who really doesn't need to be part of the process at all. But then, that's their job description all round, isn't it? I am definitely going to look into property as an investment when I have money. If that landlord can manage it, and he currently owns 30 properties all over Brighton, then there should be a way of breaking into that sort of thing.

Of course during the move-out of everyone else, a bickering match erupted between me and another housemate over some of my stuff 'finding' its way into the bin. What is it about some people not being able to handle these kind of things without doing something unjustifiably stupid?

Once I was finished there, I went on an unmerciful batter, and engaged in a number of trysts in the Bulldog. At one point, I was serviced on one of the side-streets off St. James. I thought about this while it was going on, and eventually came to the decision that it wasn't my style, so I put a stop to it. Then I told the gentleman in question to wait while I visited the toilet in the Bulldog, after which I would go home with him. When I came back he had gone. I went back to the Bulldog, where some more men were descended upon, and of course no night out would be complete without me coming onto the bouncer. Then I met Daffy. After that I went home, and spent the following day in the throes of a lingering hangover.

I don't know how to feel about my exams. I was struck by how many students that I would consider conscientious have actually had to return to resit at least one exam. It is quite possible that I won't progress to third year without having to wait a year to retake those modules.

Going home on Monday the 11th for my mother's birthday. Please God the next two weeks go well.

Yippeeee!

I've managed to take over the lease on my current house. Which means I don't have to move. Which means I have somewhere to stay for the next twelve months. Yippeee!

Shit. I still have lots of study to do. Exams this coming Thursday and Friday.

Again, a bit late...

Drug classification rethink urged

Where basically the shit A/B/C system is trashed and something a bit smarter is put forward. Of course, this probably won't appeal to the binary-minded, but nothing new there...

I was a bit surprised to see GHB so far down the list, though. When taken with alcohol, that makes for russian roulette as much as any of the narcotics. The same for solvents. Then again, I suppose they don't inspire gang warfare as much as the top two offenders.

A rather sobering yet enlightening essay about homelessness. It's long, but worth the read.

The search for a new house and the study for exams grind on slowly, but I'm on top of things at the moment. I'm liking unemployment, though my sleeping pattern is starting to slip. Have to nip that one in the bud.

Anger!

Well, the peak of the year has just been followed by the trough.

I went to work this morning. I arrived in Haywards Heath too late (by 2 minutes) to catch the complimentary work taxi because my miserable (ex) boss insists on getting the taxi at 8:35, not 8:40. I then, by a hairs breadth, missed the bus to work by 1 minute and had to wait until 9:05 to get the next one. I arrived 20 minutes late.

It went downhill from there.

After suffering a morning of her snapping at me over the slightest of things, and refusing to allow me to take documentation out of the shop so I could compile an induction handbook - something badly needed in the place and highly beneficial to everyone there - I cracked after lunch.

I was moved from the counter to the dispensary, and after trying to use the computer without having been given any proper training, I made a labelling mistake. As in, the computer printed out a series of 10 labels in rapid fire. It was the last straw, and I lost it.

The pharmacist was dutifully informed (if that's the word) that it would be my last day today, so to speak. She persuaded me to stay half an hour, and I ended up staying until the end of the shift. Then, as we waited for a taxi outside, she casually said 'Oh, you'll be on Saturday, won't you?'

Hello!

I reminded her of our conversation earlier. She moaned, tried to make me feel guilty, and tried to get me to change my mind. It didn't work, and now, with a bit of luck, I will never see her again.

I'm sick of this though. This academic year so far:

1. I move three times, two of those times just after completing a set of exams.
2. I have no money for the most of the year.
3. When I do finally get a job, it sucks, and I don't see my first paycheque for six weeks.
4. My national insurance number gets messed up, thus ensuring I have to suffer a prolonged (and still ongoing, at this time) period of emergency tax.
5. I fail two exams.
6. When I land what I think is a dream student job, it turns out to be a nightmare.
7. Sundry other shit from sundry other people.

And now I have to be out of my current place in three weeks. Wonderful!

Oh, and Nuclear Physics Bear was supposed to be coming down to see me this evening, but after considering everything, I had to ring and cancel.

Kill me now...

Pride!

Well, as you'd expect, it's been a rather mental weekend, and it turned out, for better and for worse, not quite what I expected.

I got myself out of bed on Saturday morning, bought some booze in Sainsbury and headed for the seafront. There I met up with the Brighton Uni GaySoc and their float. Out of the five fucking spangly fucking beaded curtains that we worked on last night, only three were hanging up. One of the girls assured me that amongst the three was the one I had worked so hard on the night before. Or maybe she was being nice.

As I stood there, texting and trying to get people to meet me (it was only 10:30 that morning), one of the float participants came upto me and said that they needed 'Wheelwalkers', people who walk alongside the float and make sure that no little shits try to run under the wheels. The float couldn't proceed without them, so I 'volunteered'. I was provided with a fetching county council-esque dayglo orange vest to denote my newly elevated status, and off we went.

In due course I was also provided with a bagful of biros, bearing the sponsors logo, to hand out to the spectators as I passed them buy. Most of the children were eager to have one, although I suspect it was because the biros looked like sweets from a distance.

As we proceeded up West Street and turned onto North Street, I saw a crowd of bible bashers, sectioned off by the police, most likely for their own safety. One old man, the shape of his mouth making it highly likely that he was completely toothless, stood motionless, holding a placard in each hand. I can't remember what one of them said, but the other was that old faithful, Leviticus 20 Verse 13. I was genuinely startled. After living in a place like Brighton for any length of time, you tend to think of these people as only living elsewhere.

As we passed the Grand Pavilion, I saw Phil in the crowd with a camera, and the work that I didn't see myself doing when I got up that morning was recorded for posterity.

Once we got out of the city centre, and passed through Preston Circus, I spied two hot leatherbears and cruised them ruthlessly. In fact that was one of the upsides of the job: I got to see quite a lot of talent (the guy who was wheelwalking in front of me wasn't half bad either), and I let them know my opinion of them in no uncertain terms.

Once we got to Preston Park, where the main festival was, there were more morons with placards. One of the guys I live with made the all-too-familiar but no less flawed point, that in a democratic society these people should be allowed a voice too, which is horseshit: They use their freedom to impinge on other people's freedom. The only thing they achieved was to affirm the need for a yearly festival like this.

At this point, I made the ill-advised move of going back into town to meet Dan, and things got quite messy for while, so I didn't get to see as much of the Preston Park part as I would have liked. Alcohol, once again, is to blame for this, and I'm attempting a boycott for a while.

Later that evening, I cruised the streets of Kemptown, and bumped into a rather hot biker bear who told me he worked in Nuclear Physics, for the government. I didn't quite remember his name, so I've christened him Nuclear Physics Bear. We swapped e-mail addresses and have already been in contact since. Who knows where this might lead?

After that, I met up with MizzFlee and Slagella, before chatting up a bear from Bognor Regis and inviting him back to my place. It was then that things went tits up. Once I got home, I was way too tired to do anything, but invited him to stay on anyway, seeing the morning as another opportunity. He took great exception to this and left in a huff. Moral of the story: If your body says you are too tired, don't let your brain tell you otherwise.

The one bit of comic relief was that, on our way home, we passed two girls, one of whom was on the phone. She loudly complained of boredom, saying that all the men in Brighton that weekend were gay.

Duh!

Sunday, I woke up dying, but headed out to catch some more eye candy anyway, along with some open air jazz in the New steine Park. The street party, the sunday night climax of the event, was cancelled this year for legal reasons, and the police re-opened the roads around the town centre at around 8pm. That pretty much put an end to the atmosphere of the street, and along with the fact that I was tired from the night before, I headed home at around 10:30 that night.

This was my first Pride, and I had built it up to be a huge thing beforehand. That kind of thing inevitably leads to disappointment, but I still enjoyed myself, and have learned from the mistakes I made at this one. Next year's will be planned with military precision. A massive beach party took place on Saturday night/Sunday morning, but I was oblivious to it, and was too tired to go anyway. Oh well, I'll know next year...

This morning I was watching a history of Brighton on a video cassette left lying around the kitchen. In it, the commentator siad that there was no other city quite like Brighton in Europe. It's nearest equivalent, he said, was San Francisco. That, along with the whole weekend, brought home to me how right I was to move here, how much I was missing out on before: I never went to a single Pride when I was living in Dublin, and it's only now, since I moved here, that that whole aspect of my life has come to the fore.

Roll on next year...

Fucking Spangly curtains

With only one day to the main Brighton Pride carnival, I rang up the Brighton Uni GaySoc president and asked if there were any pre-Pride drinks happening. She said no, but that they were in the latter stages of assembling the float and I was welcome to help. So I volunteered, turning up at Falmer campus to help with the proceedings.

I spent two hours trying to untangle a spangly beaded curtain. Here is a word of advice, dear reader, if you ever want to use a spangly curtain without any undue hassle.

Don't fucking roll them up beforehand.

So that was that. On the plus side, the guy who volunteered to help me with mine was a cute med student, studying in Manchester, but originally from Gibraltar. His accent was something I've never heard the like of before, but as skins go, he was rather eye-catching.

I left at about 11pm. I left my leather briefcase behind. Please God the caretaker has got it.

I'm back!

It's been a busy two weeks, which explains the entry pattern of this blog at the moment. As MizzFlee says, they're like buses, for ages there are none, and then about three at once.

Wednesday 19th saw me head back to Ireland for my cousin's wedding, on the Thursday. It was fine, though most of the crowd were in the older age category and I didn't know that many. It was the first one where I went to bed early, leaving before most of the others, and - shock! - before the bar had closed. Still, I got to catch up with my cousin - though I hardly saw any of him over the weekend.

The wedding was held in Foxford, a western Ireland town. For convenience, I flew into Knock airport, as it was nearest to the airport. For those of you who don't know, Knock became famous some time back for allegedly being host to what could be called manifestations of the presence of Our Heavenly Creator. Or maybe it was The Virgin Mary who crashed the party, I can't remember. Anyway, there was either an apparition or a moving statue (actually I think the latter may have been Ballinspittle, but who cares?), and now Knock, nothing if not opportunistic, has capitalised on it. There are crucifixes everywhere, and lots of souvenir shops selling hordes of miscellaneous tat line the main street. The atmosphere, after coming from Brighton, was oppressive in some way. I forgot how religion can play such a huge role in some people's lives. I could have done without remembering.

As it happens, before I flew to Knock, I was singled out at Gatwick to participate in a survey about perceptions of airport security. My reward? £25 of vouchers to spend in the airport, which netted me a new CD player.

On Friday, I decided to go to Dublin. I got the train from Foxford to Dublin, noting that while a monthly return was forty euro, I was only going one way, and that was twenty-nine euro. Or so I thought. On the train I got, and when the conductor came around I asked for a single to Dublin. He quietly charged me the same as a monthly return, pointing out that friday was peak time, and in order to get people to stop travelling at those times, Iarnróid Éireann have taken to fucking the customer up the ass. I didn't accept this with the same degree of quietness, and he told me to complain to them when I got into Dublin. I did. They shrugged, and gave me the address of their customer relations department.

I laugh maniacally when people complain about the rail system in the UK over here. They don't know how lucky they are to not have to deal with the fucks that run the Irish service. Bastards, all.

One thing I noticed about Dublin in comparison to Brighton, is how there is so much mingling of the social classes in the former, whereas the latter is for the most part a very middle class city. I was unsettled, walking around for a while, but soon adapted. In one sense, having so many types of people living cheek and jowl next to each other adds character to a city, and once I got over my initial disdain, I kind of liked it. Unfortunately, the presence of some of these people results in Dublin turning into the sewer we all know and loathe at the weekend. Pity one aspect goes hand in hand with the other. While Brighton is diverse, those of lesser means usually stick to their own estates and don't come into the city in the same way. Well, at least that's how I perceive it. It's probably what makes the centre of this town a better place to be, all snobbery completely unapologised for.

Saturday night I went home, met my friends and got trashed. Then I met my brother and his fiancée, who were even more trashed, and things got a little hairy. Unfortunately, alcohol can bring out the unholy toxicity in some people, and this couple are testimony to that. I was disappointed in them, but the man Dan's advice was to forget them. I still wish they would GROW THE FUCK UP, but oh well...

Monday 24th I came back.

The following tuesday I worked my last day in the supermarket. Yes folks, I have finally found another job. As a counter-come-dispensing assistant in a pharmacy. Unfortunately, it feels like a case of jumping out of the frying pan and landing arse-first into the fire. The experience is good, but the duty pharmacist is about as far away from nomination for manager of the year as you can get. She has already told me 'to relax', that I am too 'eager', and that I ask too many questions. I'm still flailing about in there, and the other guy who works in there - incidentally a guy in my year on the course - isn't the best at passing on information either. Today, as the woman snapped at me twice before 11am, I slowly curled up into a ball of rage, and nearly stormed out of there for good at lunchtime. We have spoken a little about it, and when I come back (next Tuesday, as I have the weekend off for Pride. Yay!) we are going to fill in the blanks that I have. The potential for me to learn from this work exists, and it would be a shame to let that pass. I need to know how to do things better than her, if nothing else.

Frustration

(noun) Having to suffer a fuckwit in a mixed group when you had previously decided that his permanent absence from your life could only be a good thing.

The results are out...

...and I have to resit two papers.

It's not the worst case scenario that I had envisioned. It was quite possible that I could have failed three, and that would have effectively put the end to a summer of fun. As it stands, the workload I have to get through before the repeats is manageable.

I found out at Dan's on Wednesday night. After arriving at his, I found out that in some cases, people who had failed three were being told to repeat the year without even getting an attempt to resit in the autumn (Quite how this decision was reached is unclear, and the university kept that one very quiet, bastards). I hadn't yet found out what my results were at that point, so I went into deep shock. After composing myself with a beer and a smoke, I went online on Dan's computer and found out.

After I had recovered and composed myself, June and the little feller went to bed, and me and Brooksie went out onto the balcony for some very enjoyable drinks and weed. Then I walked home. At 3 in the morning. Again.

Earlier that day, I had a job interview with a pharmacy out in Cuckfield. It was difficult to tell if I'm in there, but I hope so, I'm sick and tired of that supermarket job, and I really really need to get out of it.

Thursday, I went back to Dan's again to collect my glasses and play with Pukey Lukey (what we've christened baby Luke) long enough for him to drool, and yes, puke all over me. But he's adorable.

I go home for a few days next Wednesday. My cousin is getting married, and I'm a groomsman so I have to make an appearance. I managed to get my student loan topped-up, so I'm of the financial woods for the moment, thank GOD.

Trailers of note.

Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette.

And....

Another Gay Movie.

The trailer for Marie Antoinette opens with the opening track on Aphex Twin's Drukqs, 'Jynweythek', which is interesting because when working on my masterpiece, I was going to use 'Meltphace 6' from the same album.

Anyway.

The second one looks like a spoof on American Pie, and should be good ol' dumb fun.

The weekend was its usual.

The Bitches of BN2 came back Saturday evening, from their holiday in Spain. It turns out that MizzFlee's piercings set off the metal detector while she was passing through customs, and she was led away by a burly Spanish security guard for what turned out to be something approaching a full cavity search. After she had recovered, she decided that she quite liked it! Some bitches have all the luck. Click here for an eye-witness account.

I suffered my usual weekend at the supermarket. I ID'd what turned out to be a 29-year old woman when she tried to buy alcohol, and she stomped off. Later, her husband came in to bitch at me. I just politely told him it was shop policy, but he accused me of just being awkward. I should have advised him that seeing as his wife was an Asian dwarf of five-foot-nothing, she should wear heels, or else carry her driver's licence around with her. I felt like cutting him up into little pieces and putting him a box in the basement for storage. My supervisor, of course, just stood there and said nothing. Luckily, in the queue right behind the husband, was a woman who worked in another branch of the same supermarket, and she waded in on my behalf.

I have sent CVs to pharmacies, but they're all too disorganised to get back to me. I'm mounting the search with renewed vigour.

Of course after a day like that, I ended up in the Bulldog with La 'Flee. At one point in the night, I greeted the bouncer with his gaydar profile name (bigtop), and he looked at me as if I had asked him if I could spend the night with his mother!

I also met Daffy, looking as hot as ever.

I got home at 5am, and of course the Sunday shift at the market was delightful as a result. On my way home, there were loads of people shouting and honking horns, and draping themselves in what looked like the Irish tricolour. Upon closer inspection, I realised it was a flag of a different country, and when I got home, I found out that Italy had won the world cup. Big fucking deal. Well, at least the stinking tournament is over now.

The exam results are out this week. I find out on Wednesday how many I'll be repeating. I'm being honest. That's the most pertinent question with regard to the outcome right now.