Time is like… a mega ice cream sundae with loads of fudge and chocolate

Ice cream sundae

My (very poor) analogy for time.

Holy sh*t…

I’m really not doing myself any favours, trying to make real use of these long uni’ summers and all. Slightly disappointed that my last blog was right back in May! Summer hadn’t even started then… Well, exams are long gone and so are the blurry end-of-year celebrations. In fact, minus about four weeks I’ve had off at the time of writing (actually, a bit longer than I thought, but anyway), since about two weeks after the start of the summer I’ve been working. Working working working. Boring boring boring. I tell you, stuffing envelopes or putting bags of exam papers – which I thought I could not associate with ever again after the end of the horrendous A-levels – into cardboard boxes all day every day after a while does make one genuinely consider that placing a skewer through one’s eye and a power-drill through one’s belly button would be infinitely more entertaining. At least, the consequences would make the days a tiny bit more interesting, if regrettable. Yes, we all dream about what we’re going to do ‘this summer’, making plans for this that and everything, ambitions to go here there and everywhere. Trouble is, it never really works out. For me, this is almost entirely down to the ridiculous ways in which I earn and spend money such that no matter what I earn it appears to evaporate on contact with my bank account as if it’s some massive metaphorical industrial money incinerator. No idea why it goes, where and how. And it’s annoying.

Admittedly, I have been to Reading Festival – which was definitely, if a dirty and mostly drunk experience – something I’d happily do again tomorrow – but give me an unbroken tent which I don’t have to put up at midnight, please. Florence from Florence and the Machine is definitely either slightly wacko or permanently wasted or high, or both. Foo Fighters were unreal too. Bit gutted I missed Green Day’s ‘secret’ set though… Damn. I’ve also seen quite a few new movies, more than usual this year. I particularly enjoyed watching Anne Hathaway in The Dark Knight Rises getting on and off, and riding a pretty bad-ass motorbike – I’m pretty sure there should have been a warning about mild pornography in some scenes, because some of them have been irreversibly carbonised into my memory. Being slightly academic for a brief moment, that film definitely proves the existence of the ‘male gaze’ in film making. Oh yes. I gazed.

It baffles me that already I’m barely weeks away from starting my final year at Uni’ and that in actual fact in what will seem like only an elongated hour, I’ll be finished, all done and dusted, hopefully graduated with a tidy 2:1. In English. Sigh. Then what? Who knows? I watched Anchorman for the second or maybe third time the other night and I quite fancy the Ron Burgundy lifestyle, but I somehow doubt the BBC or any British media institution has quite the Americanised ‘zing’ that can turn someone who sits and reads words off a screen into a famous person. But then, we are talking about a country where you can freely purchase a large calibre rifle in a department store, and where it is illegal to tie Giraffe’s to lamp-posts. That is a law the origins of which must be hilarious.

It just passes us all by, this immaterial thing civilisation has universally rationalised and explained as ‘time’. We make plans and look forward to relishing it and using it well, and then are surprised when it seems to just relentlessly evaporate into a vacuum, especially – and I emphasise, with irritation – when we are enjoying ourselves most. Like time-troll. It’s a rubbish analogy but it’s just like the ‘Godfather’ desserts one can purchase at some good restaurants. I really look forward to that and make plans to savour every last particle of fudge and chocolate and Malteser and toffee ice cream and vanilla ice cream and all that tasty high-calorie deliciousness. And then some b*stard nicks it the rest and before you know it it’s all over and done with. And you’ve put on two stone.

I end abruptly for I am now hungry. Stay tuned for a more interesting slightly more intellectual post in the near future.


I’ll do it later

Garfield 'I don't do mornings' Morning all.

There, that says it all. That’s not intended to be a joke or sarcastic or even some light casual form of humour highlighting the improper usage of time specific greetings in any way. I genuinely thought it was morning when I wrote that, before suddenly realising ‘no, you’ve been asleep for what most other people call morning. Morning is from 12am till 11:59:59am, despite the fact a nuclear war couldn’t wake you, time and space doesn’t wait for you to wake up, because you are a lazy mofo.’ So here I am shocked that it’s already half past three and all I have done is eat some supermarket brand Shreddies, shower, made a cup of tea that would even put hairs on Chuck Norris’ chest, but which tastes like what I imagine stinging nettles to taste, half eaten a sausage roll, and crafted a pathetic excuse for a peanut butter sandwich using ancient bread that crumbles like my Mum’s pastry. That is genuinely all I have done.

On the odd occasion I miss being at work. Not only is this shocking and wrong, but it’s also ironic. When I am at work, the last thing I want is to be there. But I am occupied and doing something that might one day vaguely help mankind in some way, and I am getting paid for it. Still, I would quite like to not be there but somewhere where my relentlessly lazy existence doing whatever I want whenever might be noticed and result in some benefit. At Uni’, when I have exhausted literally every means of keeping oneself occupied (and I mean every means) , I am very occasionally drawn to wanting to be made to move my arse and go out and do something, and the first thing that comes off my head is to be at work. But this never happens. To be fair, I do write up lecture notes and do perhaps read a word or two of the reading I’m supposed to do, and ponder the difficulties of future essays, but overall a massive amount of the time is spent literally doing what some like to call ‘f*ck all.’

In a more polite – and accurate – sense, one might call it the practice of procrastination. For those of you not versed with the definitions of common studentisms, I will quote you the Oxford English Dictionary definition of procrastination, because I am an English student, and it makes me look like I do things properly, and the OED is boss:



[mass noun]
the action of delaying or postponing something:
  your first tip is to avoid procrastination

procrastination is the thief of time
proverb if you delay doing something, it will take longer to do later on:
 maybe TV and procrastination really are the thieves of time

And this, my friends, embodies the entirety of most students’ existences whilst at University. Like chlamydia, it’s an awkward disease that unknowingly infects a large majority of students. It’s a case of promising yourself that you will ‘write the introduction to that essay’ or ‘plan that assignment’ or ‘read some of that article I should have read last week’ or ‘go and make dinner because it’s 11:30 at night and you’ve been hungry for the last 7 hours.’ It suits every part of our lives to the letter… or is it just me? It gets really bad when one thinks ‘I should stop watching TV and go to bed in a minute.’ Mix procrastination with sleep, and, either way, you are destined to be chewed up and spat out by fail itself.

Indeed, I have deadlines looming on the distant but inevitable horizon and some 10,000 words to somehow spew out in a creative and professional manner before Christmas, and I am using my time procrastinating to write this blog, when I should really ‘write the introduction to that essay.’

I think I’ll stop now and procrastinate later…