Meanwhile, in the Quarantine Unit...

At the insistence of my brother, I finally got around to playing Halo 3. Cue a few days of swearing, dying and one very sleepless night caused by horrific cold (unrelated) and constant worrying about the part of the level I couldn't do. In general, I approved of the whole thing, although the plot really passed me by this time. Oh, and I had to wiki to make sure he didn't die in the end. Which, if you are good enough to play Legendary (ahahaha), you discover he didn't. Grand.

I am tired and very ill. Hopefully I will be better in time for my LA fitness induction on Thursday. Failing that... I'll think of something.

I am limited only by the closure of the universe

That, and a horrible sore throat.

Oh and by the way

My argument in the post below makes absolutely NO sense whatsoever. Ignore it.

The Great American Chip-on-shoulder

I am so addicted to Star Pirates it's not even funny.

I am also reading my third Philip Roth book, and am enjoying it. It was, however, touch and go for the first 30 pages or so for the simple fact that I am SO DAMN SICK of Jews in Newark and Roth's carbon copied heroes and their carbon copied childhoods. I mean, OK, Zuckermann is your alter ego, and therefore he had a similar childhood to the Philip Roth in The Plot Againt America with the notable omission of sinister Nazi overtones. But oh my god does my face need to be rubbed in it EVERY TIME you write a book? Do I really need the opening pages of "oh and by the way JEW" in order to fully appreciate the rest of your story?

Actually, I can think of a lot of 20th century American writers who do exactly the same thing. Well, I can think of Kerouac and Vonnegut and Brett Easton Ellis, anyway, and extrapolate from them (what can I say, I'm startlingly poorly read in some respects). Parallel autobiographies and fictional alter egos are common, and they're usually quite entertaining, and I do have to concede that every semi-serious writing attempt I've made has also generally been a parallel autobiography so I can't exactly whinge about them being a waste of space. But. If you've got a chip on your shoulder about your national or racial identity... write Trainspotting. Or a Hundred Years of Solitude. Or the Kite Runner. Or, quite frankly, anything that isn't about your Jewish New Jersey wartime childhood. Please.

Yarr!

I'm a star pirate!

Also, I am reading Brideshead Revisited. Also, I just got paid £20 for absolutely nothing. Hooray!

Madame Malcontent

I am malcontent, morose and miserable. I have also fallen so far into my pit of meaninglessness that I am no longer able to articulate the reason for being malcontent, morose and miserable other than making strange groaning noises. I can talk about anything under the sun, as long as I have no emotional attachment to it, but when it comes to anything I really mean I am unable to say anything. This is probably a terrible thing, and perhaps something that I will have to Get Over in the future. On the other hand, I am officially a blogger who cannot whinge endlessly about pointless parts of my own life. This is undoubtedly positive. I will quite happily trade my emotional wellbeing for a more readable blog- I am a child of the internets, after all.

I have 15 versions of Joni Mitchell singing Big Yellow Taxi. 15 DIFFERENT versions, including the 7 minute 53 second "NYC Cab to Club" mix. I am not sure how I feel about this fact. Other things I now own include a kettle, a wooden spoon, a wok and a 12 piece Tesco dinner set.

I just had one of those moments...

... where you realise exactly what your life goal is going to be.

And my life goal is to be an interviewee on one of those TV nostalgia programs. They will ask me things about the nineties and noughties, I will respond and people will laugh. It will be the best moment of my life EVER. When it happens.

Your stupidity is going to kill you

I was going to write a one-liner about how I am not going to write anything until I have more exciting things to say than "Oooh I am living in a random staircase" or "Oooh I read the Affluent Society, it was very interesting". But not only would that be pointless and self-defeating (as clearly I AM writing about those things), but it would also be false.

It is false because I would also like to say that I watched some random BBC three program about people getting beauty treatments GONE HORRIBLY WRONG (yes, I did theoretically have better things to do. Yes, I watched it anyway. Deal with it.) And I would like to say right now that I am very glad that I am not beautiful in any way, shape or form because... well. What the fuck. Eyelash perms? Daily tanning sessions? Fat injections? Back facials (Oxymoronic AND moronic!)? And my earlobe piercings have never given me strokes. So I am obviously generally superior. Although to be fair, they could show the horrific dangers of armpit shaving and I'd be sitting there going "haha I win!"

On the minus side, my hair is probably going to fall out from dye and I am seconds away from developing horrific bunions. And I am fat and unfit and my armpits have hair*. So even I lose. Tear. Still, no strokes yet. And I am not having to dream up methods to smuggle my non-existent hair straighteners into Oxford, and can thus spend my time thinking of imaginative alternatives to blu-tack. Hmmm...

*I refuse to say "I have hairy armpits", because that would be a lie. If I had shrubbery down there, rest assured I would be removing it. I don't, so I don't. Hooray for logic!

Quote of the Moment

"We cannot reason ourselves out of our basic irrationality. All we can do is to learn to be irrational in a reasonable way"- from Island by Aldous Huxley.

I wrote that down last month whilst reading Island, and now I just randomly found the piece of paper it is on. As I am chucking the paper, I thought I ought to retain the thought.

But don't worry, I'm not serious.

Girl Anachronism Rapes Pianoforte

If I did not like Amanda Palmer's solo album, the above is the kind of thing I'd say about it repeatedly. Unfortunately, I can only use it this once, and worse still I have to qualify it, as I do like over 50% of Amanda Palmer's solo album. In fact, I would say I love 33% of it, namely Astronaut, Guitar Hero, Oasis (OMG Oasis) and Point of it All. I like Leeds United, Blake Says and Another Year, which takes overall likeability to 7/12ths. I can't be having with percentages of that, but it's over 50%, like I said. A significant part of the remaining 5/12ths is a bit shit, but heck, you can't have everything. Not even Harvey Danger have made an ENTIRELY brilliant album, and they are clearly the benchmark of awesome.

I am currently downloading a full Joni discography, which is going to take a while on this damnable connection. What I did not notice before I started downloading is that one of these albums is in fact a Joni tribute with lots of assholes singing her songs. Worse still, this part is the part that is furthest along in the download. Bah.

I am in my final stretch of home life before I disappear up a dreaming spire. This should involve packing lots of stuff, sorting out my bedroom at last and generally getting myself in order. Instead, thus far, it has involved reading two Lemony Snicket books, taking a bath and moping about minor tooth pain. To be fair, though, I've only been back a few hours and I did have a painful mix of hangover and travel sickness when I got home. Also, did I tell you my tooth hurts? Yeah.

OMG OMG OMG

Ice the Gladiator went to Hinchingbrooke School!

And now for a little bad taste

If you put a gun to my head and gave me a choice between blowing several weeks worth of food money on this or eating my own fourth digits, I know what I would choose. Somebody pass the kitchen knife.

Then again, the more people with sanity who say this, the more unique, memorable and collectable yours becomes. What a tough choice I am giving you...

GTFO of my cinema, woman.

OK, double post today, but for good reason: There was the most ANNOYING WOMAN EVER in the cinema when we went to see the Duchess today.

At every single dramatic moment, she would say "oooo" or "eeeeh" or something, in a really flat northern accent. When there were drawn out conversations, she would answer questions before the actors onscreen did. And when Kiera Knightley was getting raped by Ralph Fiennes (yes, this was a 12A film; it also contained breasts, male nudity, two other major sex scenes and lesbian erotica), she sat there going "oooh, what a family, eh?"

DIE IN A FIRE. Seriously, fuck. the. what.

Other than that, it was a really good film. Although I hate that in modern culture, a story like that ends up having a "sad ending" because she didn't end up with her One True Love ever (sorry for ruining it but it's not like divorce existed, yo). She had a load of children she loved, she found some sort of equilibrium with her husband, she was friends with everyone and had a really fun political career! How does lack of sex turn that into misery? I'm not currently getting any and I'VE never felt more awesome. So there.

An official warning

I am still at Hannah's.

Things Hannah likes:

- Shopping for tights
- Topshop
- M&S sandwiches
- Juno
- Some random In Shanghai waiter

Things Hannah dislikes:
- Me changing her wallpaper to pictures of micropenes
- M&S not having a supermarkety section
- Me laughing at blind people in the street (they were funny! And they couldn't see or hear me)
- Me laughing at pictures of facially disfigured people
- Her dumb internet connection.

Just so you all know.

Newcastle = awesome.

I am with Hannah in Durham, city of students and roundabouts and other things. It is entertaining.

I think I have written too many rants about regions and people of the united kingdom recently, so I am not going to go into how listening to Geordies speak carries EXACTLY the same level of initial intelligibility as listening to Polish people.

Northumberland: like Poland, but gayer.

A slight miscalculation

The more astute among you may have noticed a slight amendation to my persona. Yes, I made a mistake. Once. Ever. Just now. I don't intend to make a habit of it.

Moving swiftly on from that, you know what really annoys me? When something utterly retarded that nobody else has to deal with happens to you TWICE. Like, the Chinese police don't go to kick other people out of their sleeping areas at ridiculous hours of the night, but it happened to me in Kashgar and again in Kaifeng. I met a random Australian who called Uighurs wiggers and then somebody did it on debriefing (although to be fair they didn't press the point like the first arsehole did.) And yesterday I discovered a second person who believes that the best way to learn about a culture is to have sex with somebody from it. Yeah, way to get my grudge against you upheld for another five years- although that was what you were angling for, wasn't it. Moron.

I have a lot more perspective than this time last year, honest I do.

Dentists go home

I am going to start a racially insensitive campaign to get dentists out of this country, I swear. Racially insensitive because, let's face it, ALL dentists are from different countries to the one they practise in, even my new "British" dentist is from north of the border (which, I have discovered, means that in the English language she really IS from a different country i.e. Scotland not England: it's called a "constituent country", apparently.) Even when I lived in the southern hemisphere, the people drilling through my teeth without anaethetic (NOT KIDDING) were not homegrown Aussies, oh no. So, racism it is.

I am going to do this because I have now had two dentist appointments in two days and frankly I have had it with this whole "teeth" thing. Yes, mine suck, but I don't need that rubbed in my face now, do I? I don't need you to poke and prod around in my mouth and make cryptic comments. I certainly don't need you to tell me you need to extract my wisdom teeth in the distant future but won't do it now because you might paralyse my face, so now each time I am going to go in terror of your big stabby knives. Which may or may not stab me at any given time. My mental health is always questionable and you, dentists, may just tip me over the edge. In short: Forget being healthy, I'd rather be in denial.

I started playing the Sims 2 again yesterday, and now I am sensing that it may become my life again. I deliberately called my new town Macondo so I don't have to worry about aging everybody roughly at the same time- it's magical realism, yo! Clearly this is a better way to spend my time than working my way through "Logic".

SIGN ME UP FOR THE PARALYMPICS

I am officially a cripple. Over 24 hours of not being able to walk properly definitely affords me the honour. What a pain in the... well, the leg. I suppose.

I am now trying to figure out how to fill the next month of my life. Theories include reading a minimum of two novels a day, getting on with the Clever Books, writing my own autobiography, painting my bedroom, terrorising Durham or, my personal favourite, wandering from room to room of my house sighing like furnace and telling anybody present how bored I am. Perhaps I shall start some Facebook groups, that'll be interesting.

At least I'm not tired any more.

London Stanstead: Bare Sick, Innit.

I think I am going to start a petition to make the above the official slogan of London Stanstead, to reflect our colourful local language and cultural heritage i.e. Scene music and Chavism. Granted, I am basing this assumption on Bishop's Stortford being a more south easterly Peterborough, but I think there are more places in the world which are a geographically different Peterborough than would like to admit it. I genuinely think it is the way forward...

This reflection is brought you to by Glasgow Prestwick's slogan: Pure Dead Brilliant. That's just the kind of thing I think would give non-English speakers (or sorry, non-Scottish speakers) the best possible impression of my "country" and inspire trust and friendliness in the local population. Although actually, being patronising to your customers seems to be the way forward for most businesses these days. I can't even buy a bottle of juice without it giving me nursery school flashbacks. I would frankly prefer "fuck off and die" brand juice to all this innocent rubbish telling me it'll return its library books and that I can visit it for a nice chat and a cup of... well, juice I suppose.

Oh, I came back from Scotland, and it was in fact Pure Dead Brilliant. But the airport wasn't. And I am tired and can't walk.

Lies, all lies.

So, I organised my reading for the next month. It turns out I'll have to read just over a book a day if I want to get through everything on my shelf... not too tall an order for the awesome. Well, OK, maybe it is. But it's not like I have anything else to do with my life other than absorb knowledge. And trawl Facebook for people I might meet in October, that's important too.

I have packed my things for debriefing (i.e. getting over not being in China any more) up in Scotland, now all I have to do is go there for five days. I am flying, which is a mixed blessing as it means time goes quicker but also gives me a lot less time to make a dent in the aforementioned reading, shame. And also I have an afternoon to kill in Glasgow. Sweet Jesus no. Personally, I don't think going to Scotland is the right way to get over not being in China any more. I mean, I'm going to a minority area peopled by angry sounding men who wear silly clothes and may or may not stab me. In what way is that not regressing back to Xinjiang?

Incidentally, after listening to a woman in Huntingdon call her daughter "India" this morning, I have decided that my girl children are going to be called Antarctica, Patagonia and Xinjiang. This is to go with my boy children, Ghengis, Milo and... I can't actually spell the third one, but it's Italian, designer and dumb. Plan or PLAN?

Also on the subject: I have vague plans to firebomb Next and their ridiculous sizing. I have NEVER been a tight size 14 before walking into that shop, I swear. Tight size 12, sure, but that's only to be expected in a curvaceous future leader like myself. Now I just have to hope none actually GET firebombed and I live to regret making that clearly throwaway remark. Hmm.

I have to read Economic Philosophy before the world ends. It's going to be a close one.