Blah blah fishcakes. The bit’s with Lucy were fun, as were most of the bit’s with Mark. The barbemeet for fridge was lovely and when I saw people, I liked seeing them. Now I just want this miserable going-to-work Friday to be over, and tomorrow’s going-to-work, Angelless Saturday to be over, so I can have loungearound Sunday with Lucy and bereft of worth or value and a Tuesday of showing my grades to teacehrs and enrolling in the Upper Sixth and then it’ll be wednesday, and I can skim over details of my summer and get on with being back at school again.
Anyway. Wales. It was boring. It didn't even have Scrubs. Which is WRONG. What it had instead was La Bamba. Which was horrible. It basically involved sending a Welsh film crew off to somewhere Spanish and cheesy and telling them to find people who spelt Welsh. But not just anyone who spelt Welsh, oh no... No, they went looking for people who spoke Welsh like it wasa a GCSE oral exam. They got four men and four women and told them to introduce themselves, and then say which of the opposite sex they fancied. The only thing I learnt from all of that was that "sectioned under the Hental Health Act" is the same in Welsh as English...
Oh yeh, and then they made them run up and down a beach carrying dead fish and putting them into buckets. WHAT THE FUCK?!
And yeh... that was pretty much the only thing of note that went on. That and that I read Vurt. Which was, contrary to the cunt from the Daily Mail says, a work of sheer and powerful beauty. Gorgeous, well realised, violent and warped. I hate Jeff Noon and swear I will one day kill him and take his place... Irritatingly talented Manchuiran bastard.