The Blandford School

As I walked back in to The Blandford School for the first time in two weeks, I first thought “Wow, what a shithole. Full of festering younger people, hideously swarming every crevice in order to find their own pathetic crawlspace to hang out with their friends.” So much so that upon entering the courtyard outside Block 1 I was instantly sick.

          I was forced to traipse past the disgusting excuse for a slum that is the new study area. Which much like a vile parasite, has the office of Penny White injected into the centre so she can keep over watch of the dismal wasteland that is the new social area. Delving further in to the realm of this disgusting shithole, you come across an IT room with fucking awkward desks that look like a blind spastic with no art experience whatsoever designed them.

          Although none of this compares with the embarrassing atrocity of the Blandford School which was the old Common Room. My fucking God. It looks like an attempt to recreate a gas chamber in Auschwitz cross with interior design by the antagonist of The Human Centipede. That place made hell look like a five star hotel. Who made the executive decision to paint the walls the colour of sick? What kind of fucking life does that bring to a wall? I’m glad they are demolishing that absolute shite.

          Finally, I won’t miss supervised fucking study. It was possibly the worst ever idea ever created by anyone. I would gladly endure a slow, painful suffering death than have to spend 1 hour in that psychological  fuckup.

          No, I will not miss the Blandford School itself. How it can name itself a “Technology college” is beyond me. Oh yeah, nice decision on the new Block 5 Wilson. I have really used all the resources possible there. Good job with the relocation of the main entrance too, because everybody knows that the main entrance to the school should be located in the fucking centre of it.

Nightmare at Corfe Castle

"FUCKING HELL!" Joe shouted in response to a sound that could have only be made my Paul.
    Pearce could just make out a lumberjack axe lodged between Paul's shoulder blades. Paul had screamed so impossibly loud, that it had damaged Greg's ear drum. The situation was dire. Joe knew that in order to have any hope whatsoever of making out of this forbidden place, he had to start as soon as possible. He started pulling off, Paul trying his best to keep up and jump in to the car as Joe started driving away. Pearce was losing blood. Greg was delirious and worst of all, it was his music choice.
    Yet, this was a minor setback considering what the rest of the night would bring.


_____________________________________________________

It all started when they had abandoned the idea of going for drinks in town and instead, opted to go on a roadtrip. Although it seemed like a blatent setup for disaster, they were men, they didn't understand such words. The night had gone well. Junk food, music, Bournemouth and plenty of sex. The time was dawning upon 1:00am as they arrived in the secluded car park area of Corfe Castle. The 4 of them stepped out of the car and looked upon the sky and with a brief moment of mutual homosexuality, reveled in the awesomeness of the sheer amount of stars. The ascension of the hill started soon after they left the car. Initially Pearce thought he had seen figures atop the hill, little known to him though, Greg had thought he saw the same. Joe and Paul were too infatuated within each others presence in order to recognise such minor details. The steep incline meant a struggle to get to the top for the less fit types such as Pearce and Greg. Nonetheless, it wasn't long before they all made it to the top of the giant tit, that was Corfe Castle.
    Few times, they had to "dig in" in order to evade passing cars and raise suspicion. This Blair Witch project sequel was to be kept quiet. They ambled around the side of the Castle, gazing upon it's ruins which were once home to the battle of Hastings. The eerie silence of both the Castle and the underlying village pissed them off, as it added to the tension of the trespassing that they were already committing. Pearce kept his nerves with Vodka, Joe and Paul found comfort within each other (sometimes literally) and Greg, generally wasn't steady at all. About a quarter of the way around the castle, the mindless chit chat stopped as Pearce pointed out a figure on top of the castle. It wasn't recognisable at first, but the others soon saw it too. It took the shape of a hooded figure, carrying an axe. They figured it was a statue, even when it moved across a building, Paul still confirmed it was a statue. The others hadn't any reason not to believe him.
   They ignored the boring scenery of the village and soon came across two separate paths. A high path and a low path. Joe, Paul and Greg took the low path, where as Pearce, by far the most adventurous of them all, took the high path. This boded well for the first 30 meters until shapes started forming in front of them. 
"SSSSSSSSHIT!" Joe exclaimed
"HOLY CRUNDLE" Pearce shouted
They had seen them first. Small shapes just in front of them, barely visible in the darkness of the night. Greg and Paul had immediately panicked and turned in to a moment of madness and insanity. Although it was soon all relieved when the shapes turned out to be goats on the hill. It brought an overwhelming sense of relief to them as they spotted the hoofed creatures roaming the hill.
"What if they try and butt us off the hill" worried Greg.
"Oh yeah, like that's going to happen. They'd have to run down the hill at full speed and potentially break all of their legs on this sharp incline if they miss." Retorted Pearce. Yet it was at this moment, a goat did exactly that and ran at full pace towards Pearce. The sharp horns penetrated his upper thigh and sent him hurtling several meters down the steep hill. The goat found a more grizzly fate, as it tumbled unsteadily down the remainder of the hill and broke all of it's legs and neck, then splashed in to the river below.
    Greg started panicking an speaking words of extreme pessimism, as well as mentioning something about 'suicide goats'. Which was true, they were martyrs for their cause. Paul slapped Greg and told him to get himself together. Joe had already started running away to a nearby gate in order to escape the frenzy. Greg soon recovered and slid down the hill to aid his valiant friend. Paul distracted the goats in the meantime. He did an excellent job at evading at the last moment in order to send at least 13 goats to their impending death, as Greg dragged Pearce away from the danger. All was looking well as they made it too the gate. Pearce slumped over and fell off the other side, further damaging his legs. Greg fell off the other side out of sheer clumsiness. Paul seemed to enjoy the goat dodging game and was still on the hill doing rolls, jumps and even leapfrog in order to send the goats to their deaths. Joe and Greg's shouts of anger and plea soon got Paul's attention and he hastened towards the gate. Paul started ascending one side of the gate, but a goat smashed in to the back of his heel and broke most of his foot. Paul let out a ridiculously load noise in response. It almost seemed exaggerated, it was that bad. 


    Things started to look better as they found the road trail that would lead them towards the car. Greg and Joe were the only ones agile enough to walk properly and continued down the road at some pace. It was about this time that pictures of fear tormented Pearce's mind. Roads and cars. He had, had bad experiences in the past, now was not the time for another to happen. The damage done to him did not help his moral and he struggled down the long road back to the car. Paul seemed more or less unfazed by his damaged foot and walked almost normally. In the end, they made it back to the car with significant damage done to them. Pearce was placed in first and then Greg to comfort him. Paul thought he saw something in the bushes and investigated. Joe had started to rev up the engine, when Paul came running back to reach the safe haven of the car. The figure atop the hill was chasing him. He initially tried to jump in to the open door, but had underestimated the jump to the car by what seemed an idiotic amount and thus, fell to the gravel. The axe figure was only a meter or so behind him as he reached the door. He opened it as quick as he could, but the figure struck a blow between his shoulder blades.


The rest was explained in the opening bit. I don't know a good plot device in order to bring it back chronologically, so fuck you, I'm skipping to the next part after the intro.


Paul just managed to jump in, still with the axe stuck in his back. He slumped awkwardly in to the car. He was still alive though. Joe drove as fast as he could towards the nearby village. 


It was completely uninhabited. Not a sign of life about. They hopelessly drove around in search for a landline phone, since the wank countryside didn't have any signal. As they began to lose all hope, a single light flickered in the tourist information center. A single bulb. Joe parked up, leaving the three inside the car with Greg to tend to them. Paul at this point was mumbling incoherent, blurred speech. Pearce was bleeding out badly. Greg couldn't hear them very well due to Paul's screaming earlier. It was a truly gruesome scene.
    Joe entered the center. The door at the entrance was ajar and he slipped through. 
"Hello?" he called. No response.
He turned the first corner and there she was. An old lady starting down at her desk with a single light bulb above her. Joe slowly advanced to the desk, fear in his eyes he approached her and asked,
"Do you have a landline phone? We need to make an emergency call, my friends are badly injured."
She didn't respond.
"Please, we are just 4 guys from Blandford, that went out for the night and need to get back"
She slowly looked up and rotated her head whilst saying in a calm, eery voice
"But you never left Blandford."
Joe had watched his fair share of horror movies and knew that this lady meant bad news. He immediately punched her in the face and ran for the door. It shut on him. The lady gathered herself and climbed over the desk. Upon first glances she looked like a normal, stereotypical old woman. On further inspection she seemed to wear a frock, had worn teeth and for an unknown reason, a Nazi band on her arm. She started towards Joe. Joe rapidly searched for any blunt weapon, he searched his pockets and found his Sony Xperia phone. This large piece of technology would make a useful defending weapon. She started jogging at him, only 2 meters in front of him. He carefully steadied his grip and aim and smashed the blunt object right on to her nose. She wailed in anger and tried another strike at him, but Joe was too nimble and kicked her so hard in the shin, that she fell in on herself and broke 75 bones.


For his first kill, he seemed relatively calm about it. He managed to smash through the door in the end and make it back to the car. The trio inside were singing to Celine Dion in order to keep up spirits. A new plan was devised and Joe set off driving his way back to Blandford in the hopes of reaching the hospital in time. Paul still hadn't removed the axe and Pearce's vision was going black and white. Paul and Greg switched places in order to for Joe to have a co-driver to speak to. Pearce and Paul were nearly unconscious in the back now.


They made their way around small country lanes, trying to find a hint of any signs to signal their way out of this hellhole. If one thing was sure, Corfe Castle was going to get a fucking negative review on it's website for this.


The country roads were bitches to navigate. The situation got desperate. Greg started to go insane again and Joe, normally the most kept together person started to get angry. The hysteria passed on to Joe and the next few minutes were a blur. They ended up driving down a narrow country lane and around a corner. Past this corner was a small thin road. The the side of this road ran a massive oil refinery. It looked daunting in the night and there was no way to turn around. They kept going down the road until they reached the security gate. They desperately tried the emergency buzzer for help, but it was no use. The main reason for it being no use, was due to the fact that there was a bloody corpse pinned up against a window brandishing a note that only read 'Turn back. Now.' This pissed Joe off, due to the fact he'd drove all the way down this road only to be turned back. Greg moaned at the regression of the journey and went in to a further frenzy. Breaking the passenger window.

     The shit had hit the fan. Two nearly dead people in the back, two insane passengers in the front and worst of all, a broken car window. Joe did his best to back up and get the fuck out of this oily nightmare. Greg was trying to climb out of the window, whereas Pearce and Paul were alarmingly close to death. Joe turned the corner out of the oil complex and sped off down the country lane. He had been driving but 4 minutes, lest he came upon the oil refinery again. "Impossible" Joe thought, he must have just took a wrong turn and came back to the refinery. He headed back to the roundabout that took him to the oil refinery, but was again taken to the oil refinery. Insanity caught the better of him and he took to the ground on foot, dumping the car. Greg, in the meantime was attempting to resuscitate Pearce and Paul and attempting a blood transfusion in the back. Joe was the only person to be not be physically damaged, but was fucked in the head, so he might as well have been.


    Morning began to break upon the gruesome scene. Paul had gone into violent spasms and shat everywhere. Pearce was on his final heartbeats. Greg was also in the same condition, as he had attempted an amateur blood transfusion, which had basically consisted of him slashing his wrists and desperately trying to divert that blood in to Pearce. Which to some extent, worked. 


Nobody knew what happened in the end. Joe was never seen again and the trio in the car were presumed dead. The car was never found and nor were any blood traces found. Or dead goats.


I thought I saw Paul in town though the other day actually.

My visit to Failmouth

After an intense skiing session in Austria, I think I expected too much of England when coming back. It is apparent that Austrians have more efficiency than Jason Vorhees in a crowd full of young adults, whereas upon arrival to the reception desk in Falmouth things were different.

          The room was actually full of people my age, so one might have assumed that me coming in with my mother would only be joining such people, yet after an awkward 2 seconds of staring at the reception guy (I was expecting him to greet me) I said I was here for the open day. Another few seconds passed as he looked at me like I was completely retarded, from which he decided to correct me with “the interview?” Well yes. Interview slash open day.

          These strange awkward occurrences happened a lot more throughout the day. Soon after I explained I was there for the open day SLASH INTERVIEW, he pointed to a form on the desk from which I had to sign in. He pointed with his pen and in turn, I took this as a cue to take his pen and sign with it. Although it turned out there was already a pen on the sign in form. We looked at each other with a short glimpse of hatred. I saw deceit, he saw stupidity. I quickly signed the form and waited in the reception area for 15 minutes.

          Our group of about 15 were exported to a blank room resembling that of a gas chamber with a whiteboard. Inside was the tutor/teacher/lecturer/presenter/female with blond hair and thus the awkward silence ensued. Trivial questions were asked until the time to present the presentation started. I was the only person in the room wearing informal shoes, who had no pen or paper and no essay we were meant to bring. I sat at a remote length from most people, the closest person next to me I named, in my head, Hugh Laurie. Because we wore a suit. And was tall. And had glasses.

          We were set the task of writing a newpaper introduction for a particular newspaper given to our group. Needless to say, I think we did pretty well in our group and came up with a convincing headline. Whereas a group of 4 girls came up with a headline which I KNOW everybody was thinking, sounded EXACTLY like a rape story, rather than the Business Secretary having custard thrown at him. (That was the topic, by the way)

          Some guy I met during this exercise pointed out that the guy who looked like Hugh Laurie (Yet looked nothing like him) had grey hair. Which he did. It was SO distracting, to the point I missed most of what the woman was telling us.

          We then had a more than comfortable hour and a half for lunch and considering I had no money, it made it even more... Comfortable.

          The interviews were done in groups. I was put with Hugh Laurie, some guy that resembled Jack Black with curly hair and the most normal looking girl I have ever seen. The interview went pretty well, apart from half way in, where I got a really itchy crotch and considering that there were only 5 people in the room, it was extremely difficult to satisfy the itch.

          Nevertheless I think it went pretty well.
My mother tried to talk to me for about an hour on the way back, but all I could think about were Transformers destroying all the cars on the motorway, so I didn't really listen to her much either.

Response to "Why I Want a Wife" by Judy Syfers

This is basically an English essay we had to do in response to this bullshit article
http://www.verge.demon.co.uk/kerb/wantwife.htm

Anyway, we had to take on the role of some tabloid newspaper and share out thoughts. I took on the role of Alpha male "Donovan Steroids" a character I built up during this response...

STFU magazine

After reading the article by Syfers I vomited through my hands. I could not contain the pure anger that I felt. In my blaze of fury I swept the article in to the plastic bottle recycling bin and wrote about it on my blog

"How dare she! How dare this generalizing, whining, stupid bitch just assume all of these things! As a toned, alpha male I come how every night and enjoy my wife's company. We cook, we sing, we laugh, we dance and then make love like powerful eagles. My wife and I could not be anymore happier with our relationship.

Sure, we take on the traditional role of me going to work, writing articles and lifting heavy weights while she stays at home. But has this old fashioned excuse for a woman ever heard of a healthy relationship? My wife and I never argue, at best we debate passionately over botany.

Syfers article is nothing more than an old, disregarded complaint to society. No one cares what she has to say because it is so horrifically irrelevant to everyone. As N-Dubz once said "Times they are a changing". Women feel better about themselves and have a lot more power! Think about who won 'Miss USA' beauty pageant? That's right. A woman.

For the readers at home I quote one of her actual lines from this atrocity of literature.

"I want a wife who cooks the meals, a wife who is a good cook."

How dare she even write anything like that. It hit me like a thunderbolt atop Mount Everest. The words dissolved on the page in an endless, animal bleat. Nothing mattered in my life apart from this sentence. It tied me down and force fed me it's bullshit.

If there is one thing I won't tolerate, it's saying men can't cook. I LOVE cooking. My wife says I'm not not a bad cook, and to me, that spells good.

I therefore conclude that this woman. This insignificant limescale on society is undeniably wrong.

I'm going to relieve the stress and go work on my delts.


DONOVAN STEROIDS.

I think I just shat on a labrador.

As I sat on the white basin of water that was soon to collect the departing amorphous mess coming from my large intestine, I reached for customary toilet paper. At first I thought "Hmm, different toilet paper". It was soft to the touch, like a velvet palm tree. I sat and thought, this can only be but the demonic works of such a large cooperate brand like Andrex. I scanned the toilet roll packet next to my toilet and thus it was revealed. Handy toilet rolls and that adorable Labrador puppy.

Soon after this discovery, I began to wipe the pallet clean and respectively, flushed. Yet the thought of the Labador hindered my progress on the way to the shower. Why Andrex? Why must you associate cute puppy dogs with SHIT? That's got to be the most sick mascot I've ever seen. I wonder if they thought putting in a chocolate Labrador as their mascot would be too inappropriate? More to the point, why any objectively cute animal should be associated with human excrement is beyond me. Is it something to do with it being soft? If so, do you want me to feel the sensation of wiping my arse with Labrador fur? Is that the intended effect?

I quickly glanced at the puppy on the packaging, gazing infinitely at me as if to say "I didn't want this job. I was prostituted in to this business by the cooperate pimp"

So I said "Fuck you, get some counselling" and showered my toned body.

On an unrelated note, here's a picture of a sad black man. I like to think that the Andrex puppy was his.

"Let's get the creative juices flowing" No need to be so forward about it.

"Lets get the creative juices flowing"

Hang on... There is something inherently odd about this particular saying.
Like it means something else.

Shouldn't this be banned from being used in schools?

Or is that my particular tendency to find sexual puns within every sentence ever said by anyone? Does placing a question mark after every sentence make me look like a philosopher?

To be honest, it sounds like something that would be found in a sex education video or what scientists would say before sex. Not that I would know how scientists talk dirty. Perhaps they'd say something like this...

 "You make me release endorphins into my blood from the pituitary gland and into the spinal cord and brain from my hypothalamic neurons."

I don't know about you, but that's fucking sexy. If that doesn't get you turned on, I have no objection for you to continue watching your beastiality videos. But let's not talk animalia. I suppose what I'm trying to say is this, if Baa Baa Black sheep was comdemned for having racist connotations, surely we can find many of these innuendos and stuff in other stuff? To be honest, it's the way you see it, but come on. Look at that for a title. "Creative juices".

Alright. Whatever. It's just me.

Like my status you shit!

Let us consider this status. "Some people really need to get lives. Making me so angry right now"

A seemingly harmless status. Yet this does not need to be developed any further. It tends to be the case that the social etiquette of people on Facebook is to instantaneously like any status they agree with, infact there are probably some people that are frothing at the mouth spamming refresh and liking every status they can relate to with their fake friends probably, in order to make more fake friends.

The reason I say fake friends is because surely it is impossible for one human being to possibly sustain a friendship or companionship with over 500 people? Which may again be our friend mouth frother, furiously masturbating over his friend count.

Yet this is still all relevant to my main point.

It's not even subtle attention seeking, it is full on, display to over 500 people such a vague, normal thought.
Upon further analysis it begs the question why is it so vague? Why do you want people to reply? Do have have some kind of insecurity problem? Is it in order to preserve these particular "people"? Or, most likely, to leave it open for people to reply back something like this

"I know, there are some foul shits out there."

The reason I make these points is because it is such primal, useless conversation. I mean, sure it is good to post a status on your thoughts from time to time, but why does it have to be so obviously aimed at getting people to agree with your problems? Why must we be subjected to your problems?

Well done, you've slightly brung my day down with your useless drivel.

Facebook is a total mindfuck anyway. Have you tried to delete your account before? Before making your apparently life threatening decision to quit and completely lose all ability to socialize and live, it brings up pictures of tagged pictures including you and your friends to try and coax you to stay.

More often than not, it's just a picture of your arm or one of those pictures of loads of cartoon characters with your named tagged under "Mentally unstable" or something. Either way, it's a little pathetic! Like a small turd. Or an ostrich with one leg.

Word.