Tag Archives: bournemouth

Hit the beach

I forget we’ve got a beach in Bournemouth, it’s well good. Well, sometimes. And those times it’s well good are the times when there’s nobody on the thing. And the problem there is there’s only nobody on it at like two in the morning, meaning most of the times I go to the beach when it’s at its best is when I’m half-cut. Well, in the case of last night, when I’m absolutely blotto.

I do wish the fat, bald, lobster people who populate the sandy expanse on any given day would just go away and let me dig a big hole to live in in peace. But no, they insist on thinking just because it’s a public area that gives them the right to be there… oh wait, yeah. Still, can they go away? I think it’s a fair request.

Anyway, having a beach is better than not having a beach. I’ve decided now. It’s great for night and morning missions. Though sand is stupid.

Yeah, that’s all you’re getting from me today. I’m fucked. Two tomorrow.

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A brief statement concerning the recent drop in temperature

When I were a lad I’d play in t’snow til three in t’morning in nothing but me bra and pants, then come inside and have to sit in t’fridge for a bit cos I were too warm outside. I’d eat snow to warm me cockles and strap blocks of ice t’me head when I got chilly. Which was never, as I never got cold. Same applies nah.

These pansy southerners though, wi’ their lah de dah “coats” and hoity toity “gloves” make me sick. I dint fight and die in t’World War II so these sods could prance around in oversized winter clothes. Some say I dint fight and die in any war, but who knows for sure? All I do t’know is: I’m well warm, me.

Seriously though, I love how the weather has taken a turn for the chillier. For some reason I’m naturally one of the warmest people in the world at all times. Seriously, feel my hands at some point and be amazed at how toasty they always are. And clammy. Anyway, a bit of a dip in the temperature means that while everyone else in The South puts their biggest coats, gloves and hats on, I can merely add one extra layer and be comfortable. Happy, in fact, as I’m no longer THE WARMEST PERSON EVER when I’m walking.

Hence, I like the cold. Or something. Also I’m northern and well ‘ard.

I will likely retract this statement in a month or so when it gets freezing.

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I’ve been in Bournemouth a year now

It just dawned on me this morning that I’ve lived in Bournemouth for over a year now – I moved down here on July 30 last year, just to take some of the attention away from my brother’s birthday. Oh, and because I got a job doing what I actually wanted to do, rather than being paid very little for writing about things I have no interest in or care about in the slightest. Or working in a shop. No, now I get paid very little to do something I am both interested in and enjoy.

It was tough coming down here, I have to admit. I didn’t enjoy living in Manchester as much as I would have hoped – I just don’t get on very well with the city, it’s too big for me. But I didn’t want to leave the north. Not because of any stupid north/south daftness, but because it’s up there where all my friends are and where my girlfriend is.

But hey, sod all that right? I made a Dransfield Move and did something to suit myself rather than anybody else. I now hardly see my friends from oop north and I only see my girlfriend sporadically. She’s here right now though, which is nice. MAKE ME SAUSAGE AND EGG, WOMAN(na).

But the year has gone in – as cliché as it may be – the blink of an eye. In fact, it’s gone so fast that I still don’t feel I’ve really settled down here or can call this place home of any sort. It doesn’t help that I am just an empty vessel of working, eating and sleeping, I must admit. Maybe the second year will be easier, and I’ll be able to actually go out and stuff? I mean, I’ve lived here 366-and-a-bit days but I haven’t ever been to a nightclub in the town. That’s just weird. The closest I’ve been is a late-night karaoke bar. Hmm.

Anyway, this isn’t going anywhere, it’s just a blog made up of my train of thought, re-arranged to make it more palatable to other humans. As you were.

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I’m goin’ stag, bitches

So not only does a power cut stop me from doing last night’s blog, Word being an utter prick tries to stop me from doing today’s by letting me write it out then deleting it? Wow, thanks world. Fuck you too. Hence, this is a rehash of something I’ve just written, and as such isn’t as passionate about being hilarious as it was before.

I’m going to a stag do tomorrow* for the first time in my long, fat life. The details aren’t important – who, what, why, where, when and how can take a running jump for all I care. All that matters is the fact that even with my lack of experience I am still a lean, mean, fat-reducing grilling machine/stag do man. This is owing to the fact I have researched many stag parties over the years, with my main bodies of research conducted in Liverpool, Bournemouth and Riga, Latvia. I can tell you for a big fat fact that these are some of the finest places around to pick up some ‘stagging’ technique. See my plan for tomorrow:

  • We will wear wacky, zany and outright crazy items of clothing that make us completely unique and individual (bought from a shop). These will indicate that we are indeed out for a good time and are not the usual plebs who go to pubs. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out)
  • The groom-to-be will end up dead. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though not necessarily with a groom-to-be. A bride-to-be, for example, is even funnier)
  • We will be as obnoxious and aggressive as possible to anyone who isn’t a part of our group, as is traditional for British stag parties. After all, we don’t want to break with tradition. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though only applying to traditional tradition, not stag-tradition)
  • We will get into fights within our group once everyone else we have alienated and insulted leaves or runs away. After all, what says ‘fun’ more than punching each other in the face? (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, because everyone needs to punch their alleged friend in the face at some point, right?)
  • We will end up in a strip club, where I will feel uncomfortable and want to leave. After all, gawking at trafficked-in Eastern European girls is a good pointer on how to rock the stag night party! (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, especially when you’re on your own. Going on your own makes you even cooler)
  • We will drink so much our hearts explode, or something, because drinking is really big and cool. Anyone in the group who uses the tenuous excuse of “I can decide whether or not I drink as I am my own person and simple peer pressure is not something I cave to. I also resent the accusation that I am incapable of having fun without having booze in my system. It’s an immature viewpoint held by a lot of people and is a sign of the shocking state of British culture today” can just balls off. As they’re clearly pansies. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though probably with less “COME ONNNN, IT’S A SPECIAL OCCASSION!” to try and make non-drinkers drink)

That’s about it, as far as I’m concerned. If I die tomorrow, it was Anna’s fault. Even if she’s not going to be there – that’s just coincidence.

*Meaning you’re unlikely to see a new blog until Sunday. I’M SORRY, OKAY?

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I blame British Rail. And Thatcher

Train rant. Woo woo! See, it took me a total of seven and a half hours to get back to Bournemouth from Manchester. Normally this takes about five hours. A 150 per cent of standard journey time is not something that makes me very happy, to say the least, and I would like to know just a few things.

Why the fuck do we have to go via Reading? Why can’t we fucking well go in a fucking straight fucking line? What the fuck is the point in going to that fucking place? I mean, yes, there is a point in going there, but only for people who want to go there. A train from Manchester to Bournemouth should have two stops: Manchester and Bournemouth. That’s it. Cut hours off the ridiculous length of the journey by not doubling back on yourself halfway down the country. Stupid bloody direction.

Then there’s the endless engineering works. Build the fucking tracks out of something that doesn’t degrade – adamantium, or something. Get it prepared for the future, then you won’t have to replace the bloody things every single weekend. I was supposed to catch one train – one train – and I ended up getting three and a coach. I also ended up standing in Winchester for 35 minutes for no fucking reason.

But hey – surely it’s okay? In all seriousness, I know engineering works can’t be avoided. Problems come along with the fact that the cattle being shipped across the country (also known as ‘passengers’) are not told a bloody thing about what’s going on. The most you get is “sorry, engineering works” and then you’re electrically prodded off the carriage. I’m sorry – yes, the British trait of apologising when you’re the one who should be apologised to – but I would like to be told what the hell is going. WHY did I have to get off at Winchester? WHY was it a coach from Banbury to Oxford in the first place? WHAT the hell is Banbury anyway?

Then there are the things I’ve mentioned before, like the complete lack of space – hence making me sit in the disabled seating and thus making me feel quite bad. And the astonishing cost of a ticket across the country – I would like to, at some point in my life, at least think I have some money left over to spend.

Still, I am happy I can get from here to Manchester. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be able to go and see the girl who makes me cookies and bread. And that’s not a euphemism.


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My predictions for today’s train journey

By the time you read this, I will be dead. Well, not “dead” per se – more “on a train”. This is a part of the ritual I and my girlfriend, who shall remain nameless throughout, take part in quite often. She doesn’t remain nameless to protect her identity, it’s just so I can hilariously refer to her by comical pseudonyms throughout this non-stop folly which I have been crafting for a couple of weeks now. It’s a hard life…

Anyway, I would like to make a few predictions covering what I think will happen on my train journey as I travel up the country to meet Melvyn Bragg’s Soggy Wart, as I lovingly call her.

1. Some idiotic knobends from the Army will get on around Brockenhurst, or somewhere like that, and spend at least until Birmingham talking loudly to each other, drinking four cans of Stella between ten of them and talking about which girl they managed to get pregnant last time they were ‘on leave’. Don’t get me wrong, I have a fair few mates in the forces, and while I respect the job they do (while not really supporting what/why/where they do it, bar the obvious humanitarian work and blah blah I don’t have to justify myself to you), I cannot abide by morons.

2. I’m not going to tell said morons anything I’ve written here, nor am I going to complain to them or politely ask them to keep it down. I value my life more than I value not being irritated for a couple of hours.

3. There will be a girl sat either directly behind or in front of me and she will be crying. Sobbing her eyes out. Really taking the train to tear town.

4. I will not care about said girl to my front/rear.

5. Some idiot sat nearby will stare at my home-made sandwiches with a confused look on their face. It won’t be disgust, pity or sadness – nor will they be coveting my poorly-made near-meat and cheap-cheese surprise. No, they will just look at it as if I had just pulled a hammock full of pre-filleted haddock from a sling. Confusion tinged with delight, really.

6. I will get PSP Claw, leaving my hands in a small amount of pain for an hour or so post-journey.

7. I will never want to make the journey up the country again.

8. I will remember about Captain Cous-cous and her veritable jamboree of a personality and realise I do actually want to make the journey up the country again.

9. I will remember I have to get back down the country before I can come up it again, thus reminding myself it’s a two-way trip and wondering why the fucking hell Bournemouth appears to be the most remote place in the country.

10. I will vow to abandon all pretence of environmental consciousness (first step: stop reading the Grauniad, second step: burn tyres) by deciding I will now fly from Southampton to Manchester and back.

11. I will realise this costs too much and is a bit of a ball-ache, so will instead get back to playing on the PSP/DS.

12. I will pity the fools without PSPs/DSs’s’ss.

13. I will think of Mr T.

Then, once arrived, I will have to deal with Manchester. That’s a whole other post in itself. Probably a better one. That’s actually funny. And has more casual fucking swearing. Nevertheless, I will arrive and demand tea from Ego Destructis, and she will refuse and I’ll have to make it.

It’s a hard life.


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