Troilus and Cresuda...strike back.

Hello internet!

It's time for another little self-deprecating update from the "series of awkward moments" which constitutes my life. Can I hear a hurrah?! Oh it sounds so sad when it's just me cheering.

ANYWAY - let's try and avoid that gaping pit of sad ramblings and cut to the (dubious) humour.

So, today's humiliation was thankfully, narrowly avoided. But by god it was close. Basically, I very nearly made a Classics joke to a complete stranger. Now, I freaking love Classics jokes. They are hilarious. Many a happy hour was spent at university playing variations of the classic (ha!) 'shag, travel, marry' game with different Roman Emperors. (All time favourite = Caligula/Nero/Domitian. BUURRRRN). Or there was the worrying phase I went through of going out, getting on it, and randomly texting people I didn't know particularly well from my course asking them "WHO IS YOUR FAVOURITE ROMAN EMPEROR!!!!!!1".

So today was basically the result of the classicist in me having been pent up for too long. ERROR. Lesson learnt. I'll give y'all a brief run down of what happened:

So I was outside my work having a smoke, and my building is behind a gate. On the other side of the gate there is an alley way with a pub and another office building. So this bloke came out of the office also to have a smoke. So I'm standing there, glancing across at this other human being and the thought popped into my head that this gate was acting as a kind of barrier between us. We could still communicate through it and all - just between the bars. What does this prompt me to want to say?

"Hey! I just thought of something...WE'RE LIKE TROILUS AND CRESUDA!!!!!!!

Oh Christ, no. Just, no.

For those of you who have no freaking idea who Troilus and or Cresuda were, they were basically a pair of lovers who communicated with each other through a hole in a wall. It's knock-out stuff. Actually I'm fairly sure they end up dying somehow, horribly but frankly that's irrelevent. For the meantime, lets just focus - in fact CLING ON to the fact that by the thinnest glimmer of self control, I managed to restrain myself from shouting the following words at a total stranger:

"TROILUS!

CRESUDA!

WALL

LOVERS

DEATH

CLASSICS!!!!!!!"

Thank fuck for that.

A brief history of mobile phones

I can count the number of mobile phones I have had on one hand. I'm no Anne Boleyn, I've just only ever had 5. I'm really not fussed by phones which will tell you your hair looks nice or remind you what you did the night before. I just need one which can send a text message either saying: "Where are you?" or "Just coming, G&T, thanks" or which can handle me making a phone call to say "Sorry, I'm late". This is predominantly what I need and use my phone for.

I'm currently experiencing some mild phone trauma, in that mine has broken and so I've been forced to take a walk down memory lane with the replacements and it's jogged my memory as to the various phones I've had in the past 10 years. Hold onto your hats people, this is going to be a nail biting ride.

I want to make reference to my first one, purely because it secured my place in the hall of "people certain never to be famous, cool or respected". Please see below:

Please don't be distracted or impressed by the dazzling selection of colours. It was a rubbish phone. That aerial may look sturdy but it will snap like a twig. Believe me. I will never forget the time my brother and I were wandering around one of those giant supermarkets in France where you meet 90 year olds who came in for some fromage and never found their way out and saw MY phone, my pride and joy on sale for less than a fucking euro. Shame.

Anyway, I think I actually used this humiliation to my advantage as it meant I actually motivated myself into buying a better one, and so I did what the craze was at the time, and bought a yo-yo. I mean a Nokia. And to be fair, Nokia's have never let me down. When my crackberry broke and I had to revert to an old model, I had a fun week typing-out-every-single-letter-in-a-text on this bad boy:

What a fucking classic. I'll tell you, I actually was pretty proud of this. I got looks of admiration on the tube when I first pulled it out and they swiftly changed to looks of seething envy as I'd happily while away the tedium of the tube with a quick game of Snake 2. Oh yes. Someone even told me they are going for upwards of £300 on ebay, so I have a back up plan in case the whole "career" thing falls through too - win!

However, sadly, I have also abandoned this one. Frankly, it was just bloody knackering. I felt like I'd dived into a pool, rescued a brick, and was now carrying this brick around in my pocket ALL THE TIME. So I've opted for the next best thing. My most recent, old phone. This is a classic. It's still a Nokia, but it's very much an upgrade-downgrade situation I've gone for.

You see, it's an upgrade, in the sense that it's a better phone (colour, camera, can connect to the internet if it really tries but can't actually display a webpage, bless it) but downgrade in the sense that it's not really in a condition to still qualify as a phone. I'd say it's approximately 75% electrical tape and 15% phone. You can see most of the screen but typing is a bit of a nightmare. I'll upload a photo at some point for the full effect, but right now, it texts, it rings (quietly, the tape has muted it quite a lot) and I love it.

Running in public part 1

Running in public. We all try to avoid it, but at some point, we have all done it. Some do it more than others though, and as it's just over a year that I have now been living in London, I wanted to catalogue some of the different "runners" which I have encountered, and become accustomed to.

Tube runners

I encounter these bastards every day. I'm talking about the platform crossers who RUN. Everyday at Stockwell, I risk death by commuter trampling as I walk across the death platform to get to the other side. SO. MANY. BLOODY. RUNNERS. Look at them go! Suits flying out, briefcases flapping in the wind and eyes half closed with the determination to get to the platform before the train has even arrived! Why? Are they actually, so competitive that they feel like they have to BEAT the train? Or beat all the other commuters who inevitably end up getting on the same carriage as the runner and subsequently pass the time looking at said runner by thinking "what a twat".

The Dad Run

This isn't a breed, but a type of run. Obviously. I cannot take credit for this, instead full ownership goes to @rjball87 . The dad run can be seen up and down the country on a daily basis, and despite the misleading name, can be done by anyone. I'm a huge fan myself. I usually break it out when I'm late for a train, have a ton of random things like a wok and a cuddly toy camel with me, so can't break into my natural Usain Bolt gait and have to settle for the part run, part walk, part jog. AKA THE DAD RUN. It's a classic.

Gig rant.

So last Friday I went to the Union Chapel to see Alexi Murdoch. It's up there as one of the best gigs I've ever been to. The Union Chapel creates an atmosphere like no other as everyone sits quietly in their respective pews watching the artist perform. There is no shuffling, background chat or people alternatively spilling drinks on you/stepping on your feet. It is lovely. Alexi Murdoch is also lovely. If you are unfamiliar with him, then sort it out and listen to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_R5IQoIYvTM

It's great. This is another well known one:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Uz8uRWoC0I&ob=av2n

So yes, an excellent artist, a cracking venue and overall it was a brilliant evening spent with some of my best friends. It was great.

However, this being Alexi Murdoch and this being the Union Chapel, there were a few people who found the mellow and calming sound and atmosphere clearly a massive turn on, and so were indulging some full on make out sessions, a little odd maybe, but it did amuse me as it reminded me of the Seinfeld classic "you were making out during Schindlers list?!"

But what infuriated one of my gigging comrades most, was when looking for a decent video from the gig, she found this beauty. Which is unfortunately, a potentially excellent video (good sound, good recording etc) spectacularly sabotaged by someone who just couldn't resist tunelessly singing along occasionally...It sparked the following excellent tirade about the rules of gigging:

"A gig should basically follow the same rules as those found in swimming pools.. no running, no bombing (this applies to the group / support act) and the most important NO HEAVY PETTING. In addition DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES MUMBLE AND SING OUT OF TUNE ALONG TO THE SAID LIVE MUSIC to ruin a perfectly beautiful sighable song AND THEN POST IT ON YOU TUBE TO SHOW THAT YOU ARE OUT OF TUNE AND RUINING A PERFECTLY LOVELY SIGHABLE SONG FOR EVERYONE AROUND YOU. It’s like saying HI CAN YOU HEAR HOW LOVELY THIS SONG IS – GOOD WELL I HAVE RUINED IT AND AM STUPID ENOUGH TO POST IT ON YOUTUBE SO JUST IN CASE I PISSED YOU OFF AT THE GIG I CAN REMIND YOU HOW BLOODY ANNOYING IT WAS THIS IS ME I AM HERE HATE ME PLEASE."

I agree with all of the above. I should have recited this very rant to the two girls who once came and stood directly in front of me in the middle of a Tracey Chapman gig and regaled each other with stories of some poor bastard they had both shagged recently and essentially compared notes... Fine, I have no problem with that, share away. But really? In the middle of a fucking gig?! Someone is standing with a guitar and singing. This is not a fucking soundtrack to your life, if you think that someone standing in front of you singing is your cue to start talking about some poor sod and his weak technique I really think that something is wrong. Of course though, I kept all this to myself, I did sigh and shuffle a lot but next time I am resolved to take action...I'll punch them in the face.

Confessions.

So as my dedicated followers on twitter will know, I went for a run last night in an attempt to conquer St James's park. It didn't end well. It started well: we stretched, we procrastinated, we checked the map of one of the smallest parks in the world in case we got lost and eventually after thorough security checks, we set off. It started pretty well. Unfortunately, it didn't end well. I'm currently one swollen ankle, a grazed leg and a cut hand and knee down. Oh and did I mention I'm going to a domestic abuse help centre (for work) today? Doesn't look great.

Now the title of this blog obviously suggests I have something to confess. Falling over in public and making a tit out of myself is nothing new. It's practically a daily occurrance in Horsley land. No, my confession lies in the reason I fell over.

I fell over because I wasn't paying attention. Why wasn't I paying attention?... Well because I was tweeting on my phone. What was I tweeting? Something hideously moronic along the lines of 'check me out I'm such a bloody jogger. LOLosaurus'.

Yep. Now its out there. My shame will take me to Outer Mongolia. I doubt ill ever return.

HAT HALLOWEEN

It's been a while since I've updated this blog, and a while since I've had a good old fashioned hate filled rant about something. I usually internalise my rage for the Northern line at 8.15 in the morning which tends to be peak "moron" time. 8.30 is just peak "a stupid amount of people" time, but 8.15 is when all the morons tune in, pitch up and piss me off.

Anyone who has ever been out drinking with me will know that I'm a ranter. I bloody love a good rant. When I'm on my horse though my rants are generally limited to a pretty pathetic repertoire of: a) How much I love the friend/stranger/chair I am ranting at; b) How much I love Fleetwood Mac and c) Convaluted arguments about the Conservatives. Overall though, there's is usually a lot of LUV and occasionally some HAT. Speaking of LUV & HAT please check out one of my favourite blogs. You will LOL, if you don't I may have to punch you in the face, tough luv.

Anyway, I'm getting carried away with the love and the violence, so back to the original purpose behind this post. So it's Sunday morning, and last night I went to watch the Blair Witch Project on a big screen at the Union Chapel in Islington in honour of Halloween. It was a pretty awesome evening, I nearly got into a fight with an old woman there (another story) but aside from that it was sweet. I love horror movies and the Blair Witch is one of the best, it's so well done it's not particularly scary and best of all where pathetic people like me are concerned, it doesn't stay with you afterwards. I mean, if I had just watched the Blair Witch on a Friday night knowing that the following Saturday morning I was heading off to some woods in North America, by myself, without a phone and with a map which was essentially some diagonal lines and a few dots, yes, I think it could then be the kind of film which scares the shit out of you a few days down the line. However, FORTUNATELY, I live in London. I haven't seen a fucking tree in 8 months, let alone a forest. I think I'm going to be ok.

So you see, I love horror movies, I'm a big fan and I've seen a fair few in my time. What I HATE with the fiery passion of Mount DOOM is Halloween. God I loathe it. I hate it so much I'm going to have to go and rock in a darkened room before I can continue writing otherwise I am genuinely running the risk of bursting into hate fuelled flames with my last words being "FUCKOOOHALOOWEEEEEN!!GAAAAH!!!!!!!!". So I'll be back in ten.

I didn't go and rock in a darkened room, I do have better things to do. I made tea. Lovely calming tea.

I find it difficult to put into words why it is I hate Halloween so much. I think it partly stems from a deep rooted misunderstanding. I've never in my life been trick or treating or even met a trick or treater (as in had one knock at my door). Having grown up in the countryside there were:

a) Only 2 other houses to go knocking on

b) Both of whom's occupants had an outlook of "don't open the door after 4pm, that's when the Jehovas come knocking"

So I missed out on that. To be honest though, that doesn't really bother me. And when I was a kiddie it didn't really bother me either. No, what really annoys me about Halloween is the sheer idiocy it brings out in people like no other event/time or year. Last night I saw more independent people dressed as giant fluffy bananas then I thought possible. WHY? WHAT IS THE POINT? If they were some genetically created flesh eating bananas which could strike you down with a potassium overdose at 100 paces I might be able to muster a granule of grudging respect. BUT NO. They were just people who thought to themselves "ha! Bananas! Fluffy! HALOWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!"

But worse than them. Then any others in the world in fact, are those people running around screeching "I'M A VAMPIRE LOL!!!!". Highlighting, loudly to me that you are the worst type of irritating moron, doens't make me want to whip out a cape, smear some fake blood over my face, set my face to "deranged" and join in with the screeching. Rather it makes me want to move to Nova Scotia, live in a hut and pray that I'll never have to speak to another human being ever again.

So in conclusion, I have a message to say to Halloween:

Dear Halloween,

Just letting you know that despite everything, I'll be back to hate you again next year. I don't blame you for Twilight. That's your one redeeming feature. Don't take it personally. Jesus, man up.

Love etc,

Horsley

xxx

Tales of the mothership

So, a bit of context: When I was 14 my sex education primarily came through Neighbours and the occasional cryptic comment from my parents. Both were horrific.

The mothership once cornered my 19 year old brother and 17 year old self in the kitchen and asked us both whether we "wanted to know about the birds and the bees?" Instead of telling her to bugger off like rational human beings I think we both reacted with screams, yelps and frantic eye darting. Mum however, found the entire situation hilarious, made some horrendous comment about "your father" (which my sub-concious has thankfully, obliterated) and reached once again for her wine glass.

I'll save the time about she asked my poor brother and I to buy weed for her to another time. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.