I fancy a quiet night in...

Yeah, so my 'resolution' of keeping a regular blog going throughout my first year at university hasn't exactly gone to plan. About as well to plan as the opening to the public of Heathrow's new Terminal 5 today....suspensions on luggage check in and long flight delays. And it's only day 1. The words piss up and brewery come to mind.

Hopefully this installment of el blog will whet the appetite for more in due course. Which, I PROMISE will be more regular in future. Perhaps not weekly, maybe a couple a month. If I don't live up to that I'll buy everyone a drink *(terms and conditions apply)*

University eh? Hardest you'll work in your life apparently. Bollocks to that. It's a breeze. Granted, I'm only a first year doing, admittedly, not the most difficult of courses compared to some (maths and law to name but two) - but the workload borders on taking the piss...if you keep on top of it, though if not you're hardly under any real pressure. You sit around in your room wondering why you're there sometimes, racking up debts of £20,000+ to be patronised and robbed blind of any educational dignity you may have left. Then you see the 'real' reason you're probably there....

"I'm not going out tonight, fancy a quiet one in". 3 hours later you're as drunk as a skunk - 4 VKs in hand, "raving" it up to Rihanna in a club somewhere. That's what university's about. The dull things in life have never been so exciting. Going to Asda not really wanting anything and coming back with 30 quids worth of stuff you don't really need. Throwing oranges at a tub of cold mince. Hiding people's beds a block or two away from where you live. Nicking someone's bathroom door. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Some people call it being spontaneous. Others call it procrastinating. I just like being childish sometimes.

Being a stoodent, saving money is the first rule of survival. Primark is your friend. Just don't buy shirts from there. Fuck me they itch your neck to lengths you've never itched before. I work as an events steward and needed some white short sleeved shirts. £3 each. Bargain. At least that's what I thought before I wore one. You get what you pay for. Standing on your feet for 9 hours talking to pissed up Irish people about horseracing can be arduous, but to have it whilst the cheap cotton fibres are eating your neck away isn't a great experience I can assure you. It feels like syphilis on your neck. Not that I know what syphilis is like...

Coaching for Cheltenham. Brilliant. Having to deal with a rather severe racist incident when coaching. Not so brilliant. It's a shock to the system when one 10 year old calls another a "fucking nigger". Perhaps he's a member of the BNP, shoulda checked his bag for a membership card. Bugger.

There is so much I want to say in this blog it's untrue, I can't remember what to type.

Errrrm.

What the bloody hell is going on with the weather? I bet Michael Fish is sitting at home scratching at his bald head with a glass of scotch trying to make sense of the isobars, pressures and dodgy BBC weather maps. Sun, snow, wind, rain, hail in the space of 10 minutes. Can't beat a bit of climate change. Perhaps we should all refuse to recycle, use the car as much as possible and fart as much as we like - it makes it all a bit more exciting and unpredictable. No thunder or lightning though. Disappointing. Poor show, God, poor show.

Too much has happened in the football world in the last three months than I care to remember. But Richard Scudamore can sod off and stick his 39th game up his arse; Avram Grant needs some happy pills; Javier Mascherano and Ashley Cole need some lessons in manners; Kevin Keegan at Newcastle and Derby provide enough entertainment on MOTD without the need to show any of the big four in action; Palace are gunning for glory in the Championship and England pose as much threat to any other nation of that of a hamster to a shark. Happy days....

Oh. I play hockey for Cheltenham Hockey Club now. Only played two games mind. My hockey skills can only be similar to that of Cristiano Ronaldo's with a football. I don't know whether I've ever got the ball under control. Nor do my opponents, it's a mystery to myself when I take it past someone and pass to one of my own team-mates. Still, you could call that the element of surprise.

I'll call it a wrap there methinks.

Take it eeeeeeeeeasy :o)