To all the avid readers I am sure I have no doubt accumulated in my so far brief sojourn into the realms of online writing, I must apologise that this is my first post in a while. Alas, the pressures of essays were too much for me to be able to release a new post. So instead of spewing my creative juices all over another commentary, I have been forced to refrain, and eject them onto a pile of essays instead. I hope the masturbation jokes are being appreciated, I might as well have spent my time doing that instead of the essays for all the good I think they are. No matter, I’m back in the game.
Wednesday 2nd November
It’s back. Football season is back. As a new year rolls around, the excitement of University of Southampton intramural football grips the males of the household. Myself, along with Charlie, Johnny and Worzel are part of a renowned intramural team who stormed the league in their first season and took third place. In the third division.
Three is obviously a magic number.
I have been promoted to manager of the team after Charlie stepped into an upstairs position as Director of Football. Which basically means he does bugger all, while still maintaining an air of importance that is both baffling and undeserved.
So today, in preparation for the new season, a pre-season friendly has been organised against Bad Aids, another intramural club. At first we thought that they were a team against HIV, but after research, we found they have another team called Good Aids. So maybe they’re not the team of disease crusaders we thought they were. Just a group of people who like debating the finer points of venereal diseases.
The game kicks off and after three minutes I jump up for a header and clash heads with Bad Aids’ centre-forward. It hurts, but, not wanting to look like a wimp, I don’t complain.
Until I see the blood gushing from the freshly opened wound on my eyebrow. And then I panic a bit. I’m rushed off the pitch by a couple of our players and Charlie calls a paramedic. On the trip to the drop in centre, all I hear from Charlie is his indignation about not seeing the team play so he can formulate his formations for the new season.
I thought the cut was bad, but I’d take one on the other eyebrow just to get him to be quiet.
Friday 4th November
The washing machine has become a source of annoyance and hilarity in the household. While most of my housemates are happy to use a washing machine, I have my reservations (http://www.wessexscene.co.uk/pause/2011/04/18/perils-of-university-life-washing/). Yes, they may clean your clothes, but when they go wrong, it’s like bad plastic surgery; it’s never pretty, and everything looks a teeny bit out of proportion.
Today’s victim of clothing mishaps is Ginger. Or rather, her woolly grey jacket is. Apparently nobody told her that wool shrinks when washed on a high temperature. I mean, come on. Even I knew that.
I hear her cackling from in the kitchen, and when she comes in to the living room, she’s carrying a garment that looks like it’s come out of a baby’s clothes drawer. Albeit a baby with a penchant for hipster knitwear.
My first thought is that Ginger has just found out that she’s pregnant, and in her blind panic, she’s bought a dodgy baby cardigan and is laughing hysterically at her ruined dreams and future career.
She explains this is not the case, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the world is spared from her flame-headed offspring. For now.
Monday 7th November
In a moment of madness, I agree to go to the gym with Johnny. One should know that this is absolutely fine. Absolutely fine if you want to die a slow and painful death the next day, your muscles all screaming in unison at you ‘WHY’. Apparently, I am in the mind-set today that yes, that is absolutely fine.
This isn’t the worst thing about going to the gym with Johnny though. Not only will your body be chewed up and spit out by his Polish workout regimen, but so will your self-esteem. I can lift 120kg when I do leg squats at the gym. Johnny can lift that. DURING BENCH-PRESS. WITH HIS FREAKING CHEST AND ARMS.
When we do bicep curls, his veins protrude like tributaries of a mighty river out of his muscles. He looks like he was carved out of granite by Michelangelo. If Michelangelo was using Hercules as his model. Compared to him, I look like a blind guy’s attempt at pottery. Or a child’s representation of a man, resplendent in Play-Doh form.
I’m going to bed now. I’d like to say I’ve been inspired to do some press-ups. But I’ll probably just cry myself to sleep instead.
The Newspaper Saga: the housemates pull a cruel prank on Sam that puts the whole house atmosphere at risk.