eurovision? more like bury your head in the ground and beg for mercy...

eurovision: that special time of year when we all feel utterly ashamed to be european and, in fact, begin to understand the tories' point of view in that the sooner we detach ourselves from these buggers, the better.

at what point did blue, with an album reaching uk number 1, (albeit terrible), come 11th to a country which i'm almost certain that at least 50% of our population never knew existed, and, nay, still cannot spell. nevertheless, i try: azerbaijan. words cannot begin to express the ear-wrenching pain i experienced listening to their song...

but that wasn't all! those poor sods delivering the scores from their countries were taking it depressingly seriously....

to top off my evening, manchester united were filmed throwing themselves around and chanting like the degenerate yobs they really are because they got their point. the fact still remains that they drew against blackburn... and that was only due to a stroke of luck.... really.... well done guys....

time to emigrate.

when the student bar excites you this much...

week 1: i'm lying in bed.  my duvet is sodden with the scent of aromatic wine which, i deduce, can only have been spilt this time last week.  i come to the conclusion that it's only a matter of time before i suffer "death by tinned peaches". you know things are bad when, by week 2, over-dosing on pro plus can't even keep you awake anymore, and i'm counting the days until i can just go home. somehow, i always find a way of convincing myself that my essay will do itself, and somehow, i know that no matter how hard i try, i will NEVER succeed.  by week 3, you KNOW you need to get out, but the furthest you ever get is the student bar (see reaction above) before deciding to return to your room, and collapsing like the drunken mess you really are.

lectures? what are they? and has ANYONE ever been into the faculty library?! WHERE IS the faculty library?! i feel safer in my room. in that place where time both wastes away and stands still, simultaneously. and before you know it, it's the dreaded "week 5" and people tell you that you are supposed to be depressed. you panic because you're not depressed. you try really hard to become depressed. then by week 6, it's ALL TOO MUCH.

week 8: when returning to your motherland is imminent, you realise you will miss hearing people have sex at 2am nextdoor, and you realise that the imposing sound of the fan in the bathroom "lulls" you to sleep, rather than keeps you awake, and you realise that life isn't as depressing as you thought it had been for the previous 8 weeks. welcome to a term at cambridge. 

midnight musing

so as i was lying in bed, listening to a bass drum of terrible sound quality thumping its way into my skull, being aurally tormented by shrieking girls, chanting yobs, and a select few who were singing oasis miles out of key, visually tormented by the flashing lights, which somehow managed to penetrate even my curtains, and concentrating on the fact that i just couldn't sleep, it occurred to me:

i hate people.

and so begins the mild hysteria

"home. what's home? home on the electric range? where the buffalo roam? where the heart is? where you hang your hat? the buffalo are all in zoos, and nobody wears hats any more, which makes it difficult to locate this place - home." - jay mcinerney.

dear jay, i know where home is. home is in the place of fatal snow-fall. i can no longer move in my bedroom for the sheer amount of boxes and bags that have accumulated on the floor. none of this will fit in the car anyway. so if i don't suffer "death by snow" i will probably suffer "death by heavy object" or "death by citroen saxo with an overdue m.o.t.". call me paranoid if you will but i really would like to get home. if not, goodbye cruel world.

life in russia

to be ann frank, i wish i lived in russia. these people are much better equipped for terrible weather. it makes me angry to see the gritters interviewed every winter saying "we just don't know if there will be enough grit to go around". i mean, somebody should say, "get some more grit". we should learn from our mistakes. essentially, this complaint is about me having to drive from cambridgeshire back to essex on saturday. the way people are talking about our centimetre of snow makes me feel like i'm awaiting death if i venture onto the roads. so, if i die, spray my corpse with chanel no.5, and if i live, i'm migrating to russia next winter. join me, won't you?

the logistics of contemplating life in a well

this feels like one of those diaries you write in when stranded on a desert island. so, i've been thinking long and hard about my existence, and i have decided, that in the words of haruki murakami, i should probably climb down a well and do some thinking. but, in the words of mumford&sons, i'm afraid of what i will discover inside (inside my mind, not the well). but then i thought, where can i find a well? they aren't so easy to come by these days. on consulting others, it became apparent that if my car were to break down and i were stranded in the snow, my thoughts may arrive at the same place as if i were down a well. at the same time, that seems a high price to pay. so in short:

i want to find a well, but i can't find a well.