This post kinda dissolves into Part 2 of the Art/Brain Fart debate…

Tomorrow is my last day at school. Ever.

I’m a bit scared.

And excited.

Of course, I’m going straight into study leave and I’ll have exams for the next month, but that’s not what this post is about.

We all wore our old school uniforms today…that was interesting. One of my friends wore his primary school uniform. As in, he last wore it when he was ten, and he’s now eighteen.

I wore one of my original school shirts from about Year Nine, which was extremely uncomfortable, as I used to be flat-chested and now I am definitely not. That shirt came under the description of ‘compression bra’.

Tomorrow, we’re going to be singing the Leaver’s Song (which is Rusted Root’s ‘Send Me On My Way’), having 6th Form Entertainment, which is a bunch of sketches, videos and skits designed to take the piss out of our school days (and teachers!), and going to the Leaver’s Ball.

Let me just stop for a moment here, while I squee over my outfit (If you’re a guy,  you can skip this part). I’m wearing a teal dress and gold shoes and gold accessories and it’s going to be OMG So Fucking Awesome. Because the dress makes me look hot. Seriously. That is all you want in a prom dress. And it’s floor-length, which is so fun to wear, because I never get to wear anything floor-length!

OK, enough about my dress…on to the main business of this post (if you’re a guy, you probably just want to skip this next bit again because it’s about girls and their outfits).

First up: this is a ball. That means you do not wear sheer white gauze as a dress. Nor do you wear a summer day-dress. We are having dinner at the Racecourse. That qualifies as a formal event, and so you should be wearing a suitably awesome dress.

Secondly: spray tans. There are several girls in my year who have got spray tans for the ball. Spray tans darken up a few hours after you get them. A lot of the girls who have got spray tans are blonde. This means that they now resemble Wotsits with lightbulbs on top.

We are English! Nobody is going to believe that you magically tanned in the rain last week! Orange is not a good colour to be!

Okaaay, now I’ve vented that, I happen to have a copy of the poem that my friend wrote while drunk.

Baby Kittens

If I said I love you

You would say

I don’t know what

I want to dance with, my, dad

But my, dad, is dead


Why, did the, cow, jump

Over the moon? Was she, in a

Sexual encounter, with a spoon?

Forking. How very rude, of them.


But like the point was, or I think the point should be,

Is that I think I love you, you, you don’t love me

Dance, with the baby kittens, in Novembertime

We will be happy, happy like a nursery rhyme


I don’t think that we will be happy, I don’t know

If you can actually smile, oh wily man

Oh wily man. Dance with me.


I’ll just leave you with that to think about. Is it Drunken Awesomeness, or the literary equivalent of that upside-down urinal?


Proof that nobody can tell the difference between ‘art’ and ‘brain-fart’.

There is a new poem on our English noticeboard in school. It is titles ‘Baby Kittens’ and is signed off as ‘Hobnob’.

I know who it’s by. It’s by my friend (you may remember her as the one who pretended to be Irish).

Last summer, my friend got a little drunk while reading e-magazines, as you do. She noticed a poetry competition. And in all her drunken wisdom, she decided to dash off a poem as a joke and send it off. Bearing in mind that she deliberately tried to make this poem as ridiculous as possible, while being drunk.

She received an email a few days later asking for her permission to publish it.

I’m fairly sure that that proves that nobody can tell what good poetry is, as  clearly people cannot tell the difference between a work of genius and a drunken joke. Although the boundaries between those become very blurred with my friend, as she is extremely good at English.

Still, any poem which manages to get  a poem containing the word ‘forking’ (in the sense of cutlery sex) into a poetry competition and still be taken seriously has got to be worth something, right?

Aside from an excessive use of commas (Best example: ‘But, my, dad, is dead’), the poem itself is actually quite nice to read, due to the fact that it reads like a complete brain-fart. Which it is.

Beware of these three people

Three people walk into a bar. Only it’s not a bar, it’s a house party, and the three people who walk in are the three people you should never trust at a house party.

1. The Drinker.

The drinker drinks. That’s all you can say about him. At parties, he will be sitting alone in the corner with a cup of whatever’s the strongest on offer. The bottle of whatever’s the strongest on offer won’t be far away. The only way The Drinker can be persuaded to interact is if you tempt him with a drinking game. Be warned, however: you take your life in your hands if you do. Let’s say, for example, that the game is Waterfall and everyone else is either moderating their alcohol intake by sipping slowly or not drinking alcohol at all. The drinker will down his cup of neat Peach Schnapps in one go, pull a face, say ‘Yuck’ and head straight back to the drinks table for some more. When asked why he’s drinking something that’s clearly revolting, he’ll say it’s because it’s alcohol.

The Drinker will never be the one to clean up the messes he leaves on the bathroom floor, and he will never apologise for making the Birthday Boy supervise him for two hours to make sure his head doesn’t point anywhere other than the toilet.

2. The Spiker.

The Spiker will get mildly tipsy, wait until everyone else is moderately drunk, and start offering to get people drinks. The Spiker will fetch you your vodka and coke, no problem. The Spiker will happily tell you it’s two fingers of vodka topped up with half a pint of coke. Oh, whoops…sorry. Now you’re passed out on the floor. Must have got the vodka and coke mixed up…

3. The Desperate.

The Desperate will wait until you are drunk enough to be feeling happy. He will engage you in conversation of a cheerful sort, while edging closer to you on the sofa. He will slip his arm around you. He’ll move closer. And a bit closer. A bit more…there. Now you have to make out with him. If he’s lucky, he’ll have two girls to sit with, both of them vying for his attention because they’re too drunk to remember that this guy has no social skills beyond ‘I am lovely to talk to when we’re both drunk’.

I wouldn’t normally have done one of these, but I felt like writing a post. OK, that’s a lie. I felt like not doing revision. I have met all three of these types. Luckily, I have never fallen prey to any of them, although The Desperate had a pretty good go once.

PS. In my social circle, The Drinker has been voted Most Likely To Die During Fresher’s Week.

Reminiscing on my schooldays, or, WHY WAS I SUCH A MONG?

As it’s my last week of school this week, the next few posts are probably going to be full of nostalgia about random shit that happened during my schooldays (OK, it feels weird to be saying that. I can say the word ‘schooldays’  because I won’t be in school after next week. Oh God. I’m old).

Prepare to cringe. You have been warned.

This particular post is about boys. Or, more specifically, about the boys me and a certain couple of friends liked. Or didn’t like, as the case may be.

First up: Cute Blond Guy. I never found CBG overly attractive. However, two of my friends did. I would like to point out that when we were in Year 8 it was basically a crime if we didn’t like the same person, because that would mean that our hot-o-meter was off and that we liked (to use the technical phrase) Fugly Mingers.

Anyway, CBG was the object of our affections for two years (while he was in sixth form) and thus could be identified by the trail of small girls following him everywhere he went. The further up the line you were, the more you liked him. I was always last.

I’m fairly sure we terrified him, because, no matter how small and innocent we all looked, it must be the stuff of nightmares to be followed by disembodied giggling and the occasional high-pitched squawk when I got bored and pushed the most love-struck of our number out of a doorway in front of him, to see what would happen.

Next: The Holy Trinity. There were three of them, and they achieved an almost hallowed status in our thirteen-year-old minds. We were divided as to who was the best looking. Conversations on this topic would proceed thus:

Friend #1: Oh. My. God. Don’t look! It’s Hubert! Hubert Tomfoolery-Chutzpah!

Friend #2: Eww. He’s a fugly minger.

Friend #1: No he’s not! He has a six-pack! (Six-packs were very important to us back then. Actually, they’re still important now.).

Friend #2: I see your point. \He’s a fugly minger from the neck up. I would do him…

Friend #1: Me too!

Friend #2: …If he agreed to wear a paper bag over his head.

It would then dissolve into an argument about the conditions* under which we would have sex (figuratively speaking, of course: my friends had decided that if any of us had sex before we were twenty, we were all whores and would feel bad about ourselves later.)

*The condition normally decided upon was Boy X, while wearing a paper bag upon which the visage of Boy Y had been taped. Boy Z was just all-around hot.

This unrequited love/mild stalking had the bonus effect of awakening our poetic talents. Notes would be written in poetry about the attractiveness of The Holy Trinity, which culminated in a forty-six stanza poetic saga written by my friend, in which various members of THT fell in love with me. I didn’t ask her to, and unfortunately, I don’t have the poem any more, as I burned it after we had a mild falling out over the fact that she had written me a forty-six stanza poem which I was supposed to cherish forever.

Lastly, there was He Who Must Not Be Named. I am ashamed to admit that this one was entirely me, and it took me approximately three years to get over it. I had it bad. I try not to think too much about this particular period of my life, due to the desire I get to set myself on fire with shame whenever I do.

I think our attitude to boys is best summed up with this set of emails (copied and pasted word-for-word, except where names have been changed) (notes added retrospectively in blue):

From: Possessed Cat
To: Rudolpha
why didi you only give Him a 4????? (I needed confirmation that my hot-o-meter wasn’t on the blink)
From: Rudolpha
To: PC
HAHA!!! becuase I don’t fancy him. like you dont like cute blond guy do you and to meh that is a major offence. (Yes. We did talk like this.) 
What do yuo give CBG just out of interest?
Plus I will raise “WHO HE MUST NOT BE NAMED” to a 5.7. ok????
btw sorry for doing my own Rwanda thing but that was when we weren’t on good terms and I thought you wouldn’t let meh use yours plus I was kinda p***ed off with you so I thought that I would do it all myself so I did my own the night before I had to hand it in. Anyway it paid off because I got a higher mark than you!!!!! (I left this in because we were so gratuitously cruel to each other and because I would have been truly upset by this snub. And because our grammar was so bad.)
SORRY!!!! I LOVE YOU REALLY PC (IN A NON_SEXUAL WAY) (Are we clear on that point? In a NON_SEXUAL WAY.)
From: PC
To: Rudolpha
fine. we will agree to differ and i will give CBG a…7
SEE! im nicer about the people u like. (Oh God. The subtle tactics I used were the height of sophistication.)
(kidding) 😛
anyway, i personally think that He is much cuter than CBG – but i fancy him so im biased.
and i think that we’re cool about the rwanda thing. just please don’t gloat.
i love you as well – in a totally non-sexual way (of course!!) XD (Again, are we COMPLETELY CLEAR THAT WE DIDN’T LOVE EACH OTHER IN A SEXUAL WAY????)
From: Rudolpha
To: PC
I am so not totally gloating about the Rwanda thing I was just saying. (She so totally was, but we won’t go there. Suffice to say, all of our PSHCE classes that were about genocide turned into an argument, some of which involved teachers.)
not that I’m dissing you. I you like Him then good for you. I’m not saying he’s a fugly minger (The Magic Words. No, seriously, that was the worst thing any of us could say about someone’s crush. If someone said it, we were automatically Not Friends for at least two hours.) because he isn’t. I just don’ find him attractive thats all, but if you do thats totally fine by me and you have the blessing of your best friend 🙂 (That was all I wanted. My co-dependence shames me.)
From: PC
To: Rudolpha
i know, but i still think that *him* is cuter than CBG. no offence.
YOU GAVE *Him* A F***ING 5.7 HE IS WAY CUTER THAN CBG AS YOU CALL HIM!!!!! no offence BUT RUDOLPHA HOW CAN YOU NOT THINK *Him* IS CUTE!!!!!!!!!!! CBG IS OK BUT I THINK *Him* IS WAY CUTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
not that I’m dissing you. I you like CBG then good for you. I’m not saying he’s a fugly minger because he isn’t. I just don’ find him attractive thats all, but if you do thats totally fine by me and you have the blessing of your best friend 🙂 (I was an irritating smartass who knew exactly what buttons to push to get a more interesting response than ‘he’s OK’.)
From: Rudolpha
To: PC
YEAH BUT PC EVEN LETTICE THINKS HES A MINGER. no offence (And the gloves are off!)
ADMIT IT THOUGH HUBERT AND MONTGOMERY ARE FUCKING HOT CUTE. THEY ARE WELL BETTER THAN Him. PLEASE ADMIT IT. (My friend would only permit herself to swear when talking about The Holy Trinity.)
HUBERT AND MONTGOMERY ARE FUCKING AMAZINGLY HOT (This was basically the theme for 90% of our emails)
From: PC
To: Rudolpha
hubert and montgomery are really hot, but that doesn’t mean i fancy them.
i don’t care if you think hes a minger and i dont care if lettice thinks hes a minger. (Actually, I really, really did. I just liked to tell myself I didn’t.)
you promise not to laugh?
*o_o* (blushing) (I had no concept of easy-to-read smileys)
From: Rudolpha
To: PC
What have I told you. I’m so totally not taking the piss.
I’m happy for you!! (Yeah. She was so totally taking the piss.)
There were many more emails like this, but I deleted any that mentioned his name, in order to keep it a complete secret. I literally would not let anyone say his name in my presence, for fear that somehow, everyone in the school would suddenly know I liked him and would laugh at me mercilessly.

A Friendly Post

It’s important to have a best friend. I have a best friend who is one of the smartest, loveliest, most amazing people I know.

She is also a complete disaster zone and, as a pair, we are a nightmare.

She once tried to call someone a ‘despotic little midget’, only everyone misheard it and we still haven’t let go of the fact that it sounded like she called someone a ‘spotty little midget’. To their face. Luckily, we are good friends with said person, and said person is of a forgiving nature.

Over the course of a conversation, she managed to fall off a chair three times, hit  her head on the wall and make the decision just to stay on the floor because she wouldn’t be able to hurt herself there. Then, when she tried to stand up, she fell over. Into the wall.

‘Is that a fire exit or a shop called Fire Exit?’

She once kicked me so hard that she drew blood, but I forgave her because she laughed the least out of all my friends when I managed to walk into the metal fire bucket (brim-full of sand) and knock it over with both legs at the same time. I still have a dent in my shin from that one.

She once screamed her head off because I threw a tomato stalk at her face and told her it was a spider.

She once wrote out a contract for me to sign stating that my arse was the size of the universe and that I wouldn’t get on any buses in case I squashed everyone. I’m going to ignore the fact that I refused to speak to her for six months afterwards and she didn’t even notice, because that makes me look bad.

She didn’t tell anyone when I somehow managed to shave off half of my eyebrow (DON’T EVEN ASK) and drew it back on with black biro.

She and I spent an entire lunch period sitting in a classroom by ourselves, laughing hysterically about nothing at all. We laughed so much that people who walked into the room walked straight back out again.

She loves my cats, even though she is completely allergic to them.

We still disagree over whose dogs are more awesome (mine are).

She stuck with me all the way through my panic attacks.

To my best friend, I say this: Je ne sais pas. Je suis un poisson.