Bless his little cotton socks.

The television has been monopolised by the person with the worst tv taste in the house. I'm tired. I want to watch True Blood. I fucking can't. So I'll write another entry to my blog, number 30 if I recall. 30 entries of mindless drivel, that generally cover these subjects: exams, university, social life, television. I do try and mention some sport from time to time, but I know that no one gives 2 shits about sport, so that doesn't count. One of which has already been mentioned. Let's see if I can name the rest.

What's happened since my last post? It doesn't help that I don't remember when I posted last, but it was quite recently, I think. Ah yes, how could I forget. The bloody election. Last night I watched the events unfold until about 1:45, then I gave up as I had an exam in the morning, but I'll get to that later. The debates got less and less interesting as they went along, the first one was actually very interesting, the second one was apalling, and by the third one I was more concentrating on my pizza than the actual debate. Nevertheless, I did sort of watch them all, so I had a general idea of what was going on, if I could vote (which, unfortunately I can't - damn you parents for conceiving me on New Years fucking Eve!) but I had an idea, anyway. Clegg is a tool, with some good ideas, some bad. Brown is a solid trier, bless his little cotton socks. Cameron's a cunt. On a side note, I believe that's actually the first time I've used the word cunt in my blog. Did you know that? No you didn't, because this "you" doesn't exist as no one actually reads this blog. Anyway, it seems by that summary that Labour is my vote, but no, it was actually Plaid Cymru with some Lib Dem sympathies, thanks to Rhys Taylor. But Plaid was the way forward in my book.

As long, winding hours wound on last night, I just grew more and more frustrated, the epitome of my frustration vented in the form of the announcment of the result in a North Walean area whose name escapes me, but something tells me it's similar to Clwyd. Or Bracknell. One of the two. Yes, my frustrations. The unfortunate man who caused these actions was the bloke who read out the result in said place. He was clearly not a welsh speaking man, but he was evidently reading straight from a phonetically spelt script of the welsh bit. I couldn't help but think "Yes, you've tried, but you made an absolute fool of yourself in the process, so why did you bother in the first place?" The cherry on top of the cake of frustration? The fact the phonetical translation if you will was actually wrong. It seemed it spelled the welsh word "Felly" with only one "l", forgetting to pronounce the "ll" sound. Ridiculous.

Thus, my frustrations seeped away to a sudden bout of absolute hilarity, which can only be described as "The man with his fist up behind Gordon Brown". What a legend this man was. He ws quite literally stood behind the podium during the vote count announcment and during Gordon Brown's 5 minute acceptance speech after he held his seat in Kirkcaldy or somewhere. But, the cherry on top of this cake was his trimphant air punch after his party - the Land is Power party, what a bizarre name - received the absolutely whopping total of 54 votes. In comparison to Brown's 29,000, 54 is not "trimphant air punch" worthy, I say so politely. Nevertheless, as Andrew's told me already, an election would never be complete without a complete nutter. He has my full respect.

So, in the end, the cringeworthy tosser that is David Cameron came out with the most seats, but he was 20 short of the magical 326, so fuck you. And yet, the battle rages on for the Tories to get the Lib Dems in their government to get their 57 seats and therefore shoot passed the 326 mark. Please, Cleggy Weggy, don't turn into a cunt too.

I can't be arsed for anymore, I'm knackered and my eyelids are dropping slowly over my eyes. But, 2 hours of True Blood is a must, so I'll battle through the pain.

Hurrah, I didn't mention University or Exams! Victory for can't be botheredness!

A wild blog-o-saurus appeared!

I decided to do some writing. Don't ask me why, it was just a thought that came to me in a sudden flash of inspiration, though it will probably be about as good a "sudden flash of inspiration" as the man who built the Titanic, giving it a turning circle the size of the fucking moon. Or like the "sudden flash of inspiration" of that man with a slightly above average sized nose who decided to go on a camping holiday in Poland. You catch my drift, this post will more or less be a pile of fecal matter. Now for something slightly more boring.

Exams are fast approaching, dearest reader. I have 5 to speak of - French Llafar AS Level, French Llafar A Level, History, Drama and French. God help me, especially for the former quintet.* I have, I think, 6 weeks before my first writing exam (Drama on 9/6/2010), but only a trio of weeks until my llafar. Dear lord, I am royally screwed like a prisoner. Which intellectual thought up the idea of exams, really? They're the most frustrating, time-consuming, stress building pieces of paper ever created. And what makes things even more fun, this year is the first time these papers will be given out - we're being used as guinea pigs for WJEC, lovely. Chances are they'll realise they have no idea what they're doing, and return to the previous form of exam without anyone noticing. Except the Class of 2010, fuckwits. We will seek vengance upon thy souls.

In more cheerful, yet still exam related news, my history coursework has reached it's completion, though you delightful readers had no idea I had history coursework because I haven't vented my frustrations in months. Anyway, we had coursework to do. We had to write four thousand bloody words about whether the resistance groups in Nazi Germany had "any hope of dethroning Hitler" (is dethroning even a word? Google translate supplied a translation of disodli as "replaced". But clearly, knowing me, that's just not epic enough, so me and my very excitable brain created, possibly, a new word!). Four thousand words. That's a mountain to climb for a person like me who, in recent history, seemingly has only a 3 word vocabulary - Ledge, Twenty-Four (it's hyphenated - it's one word, smart arse!) and Shocker. Blimey, that was a blast from the past, that's going back to Year 10, I think. I didn't even manage to get to the four thousand mark, I stumbled at around the 3600 mark. Oh well, all that matters is that 14 pages later, I've finished.

That's just about all I can muster for this evening, I need some sleep. But Fringe comes first. Oh, and Bayern Munich are in the final of the Champions League, not that anyone cares of course.

P.S.

You may have noticed I wrote the number 4000 out twice in the coursework paragraph, and in letters as opposed to numbers. There is reason behind this madness, observe: Four thousand has 12 letters, not including the space. I wrote it out twice, meaning combined it has 24 letters. I watch 24. COINCIDENCE?!

*Yes, that was a joke.

One of the hardest decisions in my life has finally come to an end.

Well that was genuinely stressful. I actually can't believe it's all over in a matter of clicks. I'm not going to reveal my decision just yet (though my Facebook friends...everyone that's following me on here will already know what I've chosen), so I'll give you a bit of background information behind my conundrum.

I'd long decided that it would be between Nottingham and Warwick. Interestingly, in my epic blog about all my possibilities, Nottingham reigned supreme, and if I remember rightly, Warwick wasn't even on the list, which is rather bizarre considering it's suddenly jumped o the fore front of my choice list, regularly being referred to as my "Insurance" choice in conversations. And yet, over the past months, Nottingham has been doubted, and Warwick was gradually getting closer and closer to the top. So in order to contribute to my final decision and having already seen the stunning Nottingham campus, I ventured to Warwick to even the odds.

I should make the point that only one factor of them has a bearing - Italian or not. Warwick offers Italian, Nottingham doesn't. The French part is super similar.

The venture did absolutely nothing except confuse me even more as to where I want to go. The Nottingham campus is more picturesque, with the Warwick campus seemingly more city-like. I prefered the Nottingham French department as it seemed much more like a University building, and had much more character about it. The Warwick French department was much more modern, full of kind of boring, long corridors. I did prefer the Warwick Students' Union, but only fractionally. I couldn't tell the accommodation apart, but for the fact that the Nottingham accommodation is very slightly more expensive. This was getting as hard a decision as a fat person trying to choose between Burger King and Maccy Ds - BK has the better chips, Maccy's has the better burgers...actually, fuck that, BK wins every time but the price. Major issue there.

Jesus, what the hell was I supposed to do? They both are so incredibly similar, I genuinely couldn't make a decision. I had to go back to the Italian or not conundrum.

Pros of Italian:
Ability to learn a 4th language.
Improved chances of getting a major job in later years.

Cons of Italian:
A lot more work. A lot more.
A risk of starting a totally new language from scratch that I may not like anyway.

See what I mean? Pros and cons are the biggest piss-take in history. I'd done all my research into them and I couldn't tell them apart. Warwick even gained first place for a while. But then I remembered an absolutely crucial point that I hadn't even considered yet. It was so blatantly obvious, I completely missed it. It was hiding in plain sight.

Nottingham was where my heart was set on from the word go. Everything about it was perfect. The location. The nightlife. The course. The Students' Union. The accommodation. Everything was perfect. I realised that I only considered Warwick because of its name and status. Nottingham has a superb reputation for languages, it's the best University for research in the UK and is in the Top 10 of teaching standards year in year out. I was naive enough to think that a name would be better than what I truly wanted. I want to be fluent in French. That's it. No fancy flowering with Italian. French is my favourite language and has been since I started learning it (yes, even under the guidance of Miss Rees). French is better than Welsh, English, German, Italian, any language I've ever heard before. It gets annoying at times with all the grammatical rules that you have to follow, but after a while, you get used to it. Imagine how hard it must be for French people learning English with all the stupid little tiny things the language has, the different sentence structure, the 've at the end of should/would/could and all. It makes sense now. French will hopefully be the most important aspect of my life. I have a lifelong ambition to just fuck off to France for the rest of my life. Nottingham can help me do that.

Nottingham. Say hello to your new potential undergraduate. Scary, right?

God, this sentimental business doesn't look good, I better add something at the end.

Hayley Williams is hot.

Ahh, that's better.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.

It isn't really, The Scientist by Coldplay came on my Spotify, and just as I clicked "New Post", that lyric was sung, so I decided to use that. Yes, it's not very imaginative, yes it sounds fairly melancholy and yes, this is probably going to be a fairly meaningless blog, but you'll have to deal with it. I mean, no one concentrates on the blog titles anyway...right? Actually, scratch that. I have a better title from the previous one "It's such a shame for us to part."

Sadly, 2009 is a matter of weeks before it's curtain call, and, thankfully the year has been a much improved one, given the disaster that was last year (there's a link there, by the by), all culminating in what should be a hell of a finale. Christmas is 10 days away - those of you who haven't seen my wish list, see here. New Year shortly follows where I will aim to be so pyjama'd, I will forget what I did on New Years Eve so badly, that the guys behind The Hangover will be envious. Well, maybe not that bad, considering rohipnol was involved in their outing. Anyway, it should be one immense couple of weeks leading up to January 1, and I bloody well hope so.

Unfortunately, I completely forgot about this post until I was bored, went on Twitter (that useless piece of tripe that I've suddenly taken a liking too), saw that Barack Obama (yes, I'm following the Man himself) had written a blog, didn't read that and took the initiative to write my own, soon remembering that this one has been in the works for weeks. Silly me, I know many of you have desperately been clicking refresh on this page since my last post.

Well, seen as so far this blog has had many links to other sites on the World Wide Web, I'm not going to start with another one. New Year was a success, I think. And what I set out to do, was partially achieved - everything after around 1:30 AM is almost a complete blur, with waking up at 9:30 being the next thing I remember. Blimey, I wasn't expecting to get that drunk, I originally said I'd do that as a whimsical comment. Ho hum.

Continuing in reverse chronological order, Boxing Day was also a success, though the final result wasn't so much a success. I woke up at 11 ish AM in one of the numerous beds at the Farm my Grandparents on my Father's side live at, expecting a fairly normal day whereas I get to "play", per se, with my latest batch of Christmas gifts and the like. My younger brother stormed in, exclaiming "We're going to see Chelsea! We're going to see Chelsea!". Naturally, I didn't believe a single word that came out of his evil little mouth, and promptly returned to the land of nod. It wasn't until my sister stormed in, exclaiming in a much more serious voice, "Rhys, if you want to go see Chelsea, get your fat arse out of bed and get dressed." Now that I can believe. Ten minutes later, I was sat in the car on the way to St. Andrews, the home of Birmingham City FC. Boredom ensued throughout the 47 minute journey (I didn't time it, it was roughly 45 minutes, but 45 sounds too neat and perfect, and being the crazy person I am, I opted for 47), until we reached Birmingham itself. We drove around for 10 minutes searching for a Car Parking Space that incidentally we drove passed around 5 times, before eventually parking in it. We walked over to the stadium, and watched the match. It finished 0-0. We drove him, and so ends the latest chapter in that immensely successful book "Really Badly-written Jaunts".

And now, the main event. In the red corner, Rhys Bowen Jones. In the blue corner, a pile of Christmas gifts. There really was only going to be one winner. Until the pile of Christmas gifts combined almost, but not quite, entirely unlike the way the Transformers do. I joke. Yes, the young man from a village (is Llantwit Fardre a village?) in South Wales, successfully managed to open all of his presents successfully. They contained everything I asked for, with some extra bits and bobs to surprise and confuse us all. The highlight of my gifts? There really is only one winner. Not the aftershave. Not the cassette tape socks. Yes, the tickets to see a master at work. One, Peter Kay. I can almost feel the jealousy seeping through you all now.

As I wrote the title, something occurred to me. I don't think I've filled you all in on October 27th. The night, if you've all kept tabs on my more recent blogs, I witnessed a Green Day gig on that night. 6 words. The. Best. Night. Of. My. Life. Simple as that. They performed for nearly 3 hours, it was spellbinding. Mesmerising. Nothing, I doubt, will ever beat that night, unless I go see them again, or I suddenly gain millions upon millions of pounds. The former more probable than the latter.

The Infinite Improbability Drive would come in handy there, methinks.

2009, was epic. 2010? Give me the best you've got.

Dear lovable reader...

When I woke up this morning, something occurred to me. I hadn't written a blog in weeks. Weeks. That's longer than those blasted adverts on Dave. So here it is, the blog that hasn't been in the pipeline for a while, and yet, it's here. How lucky you technological people are.

What's occurred in the past weeks? Well, school's gotten very, very enjoyable. I'm enjoying French a lot, translating is the most fun I've had in Gwenllian's lessons in a while (Gwenllian Rees, the most pathetic teacher in the history of human kind), even though I'm not particularly good at it. History, well half of it, is good, and our coursework is on the verge of commencing. I have no idea where to begin, but begin it shall, one way or another. And Drama, well I'm surprisingly enough enjoying both halves of Drama, but only because "Lysh" (a drama by some alcoholic) is good. Menna is still the douche (yes, I said the. Not "a". The.), but the drama is good, so I'll make sacrifices. Electra, I hated to start off with, mostly because I just didn't get it. The language is really old and complicated, but with persistence comes gratitude (have I just invented another "no pain, no gain" style phrase?), and I'm starting to understand it much more. The story is insanely simple, but the way it's written isn't, so I was a bit flustered. But all's well, so that's a plus.

And in my hardly classed as a social life? Well, there was that...interesting...party at Lowri Prince's, which involved me drinking first a strange concoction of Ribena, Coca Cola and Vodka, which at the time was nice, but on hindsight was absolutely revolting, a fair bit of Apple Sours (which I have now gone off completely) and then me stupidly drinking half a bottle of straight vodka. Never, ever again. Clearly, hilarity did not ensue, and I shan't fill you in on the details. But, it did involve me spending three hours in a toilet, 2 and a half of which, sleeping in the toilet bowl. See if you can guess what that missing half an hour involved. No prizes for guessing correctly.

To finish and to lighten up the mood a hell of a lot, Christmas is just 39 days away. 39! Firstly, where the bloody hell has the year gone? It feels like just yesterday I was picking up my AS results ("the smile seeped across my face..." *cringe*), and now it's approaching 2010, the most important exams of my life are a matter of months away. But before that, I have exciting news. After the constant barrage of whining from teachers about UCAS, my form has been completed. A while ago, in all honesty. But, that now means that I have received not one, but two offers. The first was from Reading, which I was elated about, as it's my 3rd choice, asking for 300 UCAS points (or BBB). The second was from Nottingham. Those of you who have been reading my blogs should be aware that Nottingham is my first choice. If I was elated at Reading giving me an offer, imagine my surprise seeing the word "Conditional" next to "The University of Nottingham". They've asked for ABC, with an A in French. It's do-able, but it'll be bloody hard work. I can do it, I just have to actually work, as opposed to fluking the AS's. Come on, RBJ.

And for you inquisitive people, my 5 year old brain has made a Christmas list. Oh yes. Here it is, for your viewing.

Games
Assassin’s Creed 2
Ratchet and Clank: Size Matters – PSP
Mario & Sonic at the Olympic Winter Games – Wii

DVDs
Star Trek
The Hangover
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Michael McIntyre: Hello Wembley! – Live

Xbox
20G Hard Drive – Xbox 360
Wireless Network Adapter – Xbox 360
Headset – Xbox 360

Read it. Take it all in. Now, take one of those gifts, go to Amazon, and purchase it. Much appreciated.

That last bit was clearly a joke, and I don't expect anyone to get me a gift this Christmas, and don't want anyone to get me anything (other than my parents, naturally).

Regards,
Rhys Bowen Jones.

P.S. This bloh as been a month in the waiting. A month. I didn't realise I'd kept you on tenderhooks that long. Apologies, reader.
P.P.S. "This bloh". Hahahaha.

Tea and Hot Cross Buns make not very good blogging.

Seen as my last effort as posting was rather lame and lasted about 5 seconds, I had an urge to convey the latest feelings that have crossed my mind, the major incidents of the past weeks, and whatever else pops into my mind in the next 38 mins (I'm on the mother's laptop with no battery charger available at the present time).

And so it begins. Over the past month or so, I have been to 2 parties, a 3rd will take place in just under 24 hours, and, truth be told, drunkeness has occured both times. And fair play, I adore it. My mum keeps whittering on about me being sick once after a Sixth Form party last year, when I've been drunk 5 times. So being sick once is a cause for panic? Anyhow, both parties were of the epic variety. I think the first party (an 18th birthday) contained much more drink than the second, meaning my intoxication was much larger, but both were just awesome. And the biggest discovery of both those parties? I got served. Both times. The most impressive was the latter party, due to many being ID'd, besides yours truly. My apologies for bragging, but I'm still dumbfounded today. Intoxication makes me laugh, and seeing as I was complimented for the fact that I'm, I quote, "awesome when I'm drunk", I see that as a success. Aplogies once again.

In other news, good television has returned to our screens as big as Robbie Williams' come back performance on the X Factor...back with a bang and high as a kite. I really don't know if that makes any sense at all, but I had to mention Robbie Williams being high on live TV at some point. Yes, Fringe has returned, and a new current sensation, FlashForward, has just begun. And both are excellent. Fringe is brilliant anyway, but for sadly predictable endings in both episodes so far. FlashForward is different, and it's very, very good. Opening up so many different questions in the first 3 episodes, reminiscent of Lost, the other superb ABC Network programme, which by the by, is fast approaching it's final series, which begins in January 2010, something that will undoubtedly confuse and grip us all, right to it's last seconds. I hope. Oh, I almost forgot, True Blood, a (sort of) new vampire drama has started on Channel 4, and I'm as hooked as a fish being caught with a...well, hook. Damn, my imagination isn't working today.

Remaining with television, Heroes should also return soon, and in a shock twist that's utterly brilliant, Hayden Panettierre will have a lesbian relationship. Victory.

With 19 minutesand 14% remaining on the batter, I will bid yee good day, after another rather limp attempt at blogging. I should hope to be intoxicated once more in around 23 hours, oh yes.

Fare thee well, young grasshopper.

Insatiable, inflatable you.

Apologies for the more than random title. There is a reason for it, don't you worry. I have recently (very recently, as recently as around 12 o' clock this afternoon in fact) been introduced to a man named Tim Minchin. You may not have heard of him, I hadn't, but I find this one song, absolutely hilarious.



Back to normality. How long has it been since my last post? 8 days? Something like that, and nothing has really happened, but I thought I'd fill you in on the minor details.

The group in which I am part of has decided to make the venture to Ibiza next summer, which I am bloomin' excited for. It's a week in a different country, away from prying parents, with almost complete freedom. Crackin' stuff. And we have a plan. A plan that was conjured by myself and Ffion (partially) to go to the Waterpark in Ibiza...drunk. How abolsutely bloody hilarious would that be? I'd love it, and can't wait for it!

In other news, Chelsea beat Liverpool 2-0. Win.

And I honestly think that's it. Except for the holiday and that Electra (what we're studying in Drama) is the most confusing drama in history and am finding it impossible to get my head around, it's been a terribly uneventful week.

Crib, anyone?

The voice in my head said so.

With Sixth Form swinging in full swing, I thought it was time to fill all my avid readers (ahem) about the latest shenanigans that have bequeathed the world of Sixth Form in the past weeks, with excruciating detail that Stephanie Meyer would envy.

The post that has most recently graced your computer screen was one on the subject of Nottingham University, and how it has taken it's spot as the gold medal winner in the marathon that was getting yours truly into our University. And I would just like to clarify Nottingham's victory, one final time.

NOTTINGHAM FOR THE VICTORY.

Moving as swiftly forward as Usain Bolt succeeding in catching what he thought was his missed bus.

Now, where to begin? My A Levels have gotten into gear 5 already - except for the Menna Lewis half of my Drama course, where we haven't even started. History is as interesting as ever, with the Third Reich being the main character in my upcoming coursework, played by the main man himself, Peter Griffin. Yes, I have decided to write my coursework in the style of Peter Griffin*, with the inclusion of flashbacks that coincide with the context of the pre-written sentence.

I would like you the reader to know that 5 minutes has passed since I wrote the last word of that paragraph. The whole time spent trying to think of a Peter Griffin-ism that would undoubtedly make you chuckle, either in your head, or out loud. Sadly, no such hilarious moment has passed...like that time I was a stand-up comedian. Gah, it took me a long while to think of that, and I didn't even chuckle myself, although you shouldn't really laugh at your own jokes, even though I nearly always do. Like that time tod... - I'll stop.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the coursework. We've been looking at different...oh god, I've forgotten what ffynhonnellau is in English (I'm actually serious, I can't remember)...sources! Got you in the end, you sneaky word that escaped me**. Yes, we've been looking at sources and evaluating them and thinking how useful they may or may not be in our essay. Which, by the way, has to be 4000 words. 4000 words! That's...mental arithmetic (or mathemateg pen for you lucky bilingualites) coming in handy here...double a 2000 word essay! Hard does not come into the same bracket on this one. Difficult*** fits the bill, I think.

Stumbling forward like a drunkard, we've finally started reading one of our two Drama's - Electra - but we didn't get very far, due to one of the character's names. The name was Clutomnestra. Take your time to figure out why that caused us to not get very far in the play itself. I'm not going to bore you with a rant about Menna Lewis (in this post...a sequel to this post will follow in the coming weeks) but, I will say that Manon Edwards is, in my book, possibly the coolest teacher ever. That's probably why I don't like Menna Lewis actually, due to Manon Edwards being so cool, but Menna Lewis has always been an annoyance in Rhydfelen.

French. My final, and most important subject, due to this being the subject I am desperately keen to study further to University level (a sentence for my personal statement, or?), and we've started by...

--Advert break--

And now, the Sudoku Forecast.

6, 3, 8, 4, 7, 1, 9, 2 and 5.

That was the Sudoku Forecast.

--Voice over man-- Yes, we stop and put our weather on in the middle of things now, because we're ITV, and we can. Welcome back to post 23, an extract from the upcoming book, Mindless Blogging, by Rhys Bowen Jones.

...finding out that we're to study a book, a play and a number of themes involving the Media World. The book is called L'Etranger (The Outsider) about a man named Mersault who kills a man accidentally, gets arrested, sentenced to death and dies. The play is called Les Mains Sales (Crime Passionnel is the English title, but the French title literally translates to Dirty Hands), which is also about a death or a murder, but is much more interesting and tense than L'Etranger, due to it actually being well written (yes, I'm talking to you, Albert Camus). On the plus side, my French Grammar is gradually improving having discovered my Bible, in the form of a French Grammar book.

Now, I think that's just about as much as you'd like to read, am I right? My insanely random insights will naturally confuse and mind-boggle you all, but I hope you've had fun reading this post, because I know I did. We'll see what the coming months of Sixth Form life behold for this blogger. We'll see.

Said the blind man.

*I'm not actually going to write it in the style of Peter Griffin by the by, any such fool doing so would immediately get a zero. Or one mark for creativity. Or the Peter Griffin-ism being underlined by the examiner and writing "wtf?" along side it. Now that, I'd love to see.
** My my, I'm going off on all different tangents in this one, aren't I? I don't know why I'm doing it, I'm literally writing what comes into my head at that moment...Fish. Ahh, stop it!
*** I have to apologise for my rather zany humour. I thought that was quite amusing myself, but the chances are no one will actually see my joke...

Things have just become so much clearer.

Remember my blog about my hopeful Universities? Well, that blog has now lost complete relevance. My top 3 at that point were Bath, Nottingham and Oxford. One of those has vanished off the list completely, and the other has dropped into fourth place behind two new candidates. But, these new candidates have also lst all relevance, because my first choice is now, in my book, my only choice.

The University of Nottingham. "Why?" I hear the question asked in your head right now, bouncing from left to right, and it shall be answered in the coming sentences.

Saturday, 12/09/09 was the day I made the 161 mile journey down to Nottingham, approximately 3 hours and 10 minutes in the car to take a look around the University on those ever inoccuous periods of time they call open days, they being the University Board folks that decide whether a University is any good or not. We arrived at the University at around 10 AM, and started off with a look around the Catered Accomodation Hall, Willoughby. Which was, in all fairness, a very, very nice place. The rooms were big enough for all my stuff, the Dining Hall was as big as Vanessa Feltz' stomach after Christmas, and there was a lovely little bar with a widescreen TV, Sky and a Nintendo Wii. What more would an 18 year old student want? A question I found out soon after. Broadgate Park.

Broadgate Park has everything Willoughby had, but on a 1000000x scale. Broadgate is like a mini-village, with about 9 different flat buildings, it's own Londis, it's own bar and it's own common room. It's a self-catered accomodation this time, however, which means I'll have to budget my money with my other flat-mates regarding Tesco visits and so forth, but that doesn't matter, it's all part of University life.

I then made the 10 minute walk up to the Trent Building, in which I would have my French and Spanish talks. The French talk really certified that I wanted to come to Nottingham to do French, the head honcho of the French department was a really funny guy, and the courses look brilliant too. The Spanish talk, however, was not so good. The Spanish head honcho was argueably the most boring man on the planet. His English wasn't very good, as he was obviously Spanish, but he could speak it quite fluently, but that wasn't the issue. Let me give you an example.

A point this guy wanted to make was "To study Hispanic Studies, then you must learn Portuguese." How long did that take, 3 seconds? Well, this guy managed to stretch it out to over 10 minutes. Do not ask me how. And that's how the rest of the talk went. Long explanation after long explanation. And, the irony is, that right at the beginning of the talk he actually said "I apologise before hand because I won't be able to go into enough detail about the courses...". Sorry, what?

After a post that's been a long time in writing, due to the fact of me being interupted every time I went back to it, it's been rather anti-climactic.

See you soon, Nottingham. Hopefully...

Apparently, 85% of scousers admitted to having shower sex. 15% said they'd never been in prison.

Apologies for the random title. I couldn't think of anything, and it makes me laugh.

And so my final year at Ysgol Gyfun Rhydfelen has begun to a, err, not that much of a start. I went in on Friday to get my timetable, and we were set to start our lessons at lesson 3 to the end of the day. I had free lessons from lesson 3 to the end of the day. So I just sat around doing my best to socialise with all the people I didn't talk to over the summer.

Today was slightly better, sort of starting my 3 courses - Drama, History and French. I say sort of. In Drama, we were given the low down of the course and what's to come. Which is basically an amalgamation of acting (oddly) and doing an exam that sounds quite difficult to say the least. 2 and a half hours of writing, where we have to write about two drama's, and write your direction for a passage of a script we've never seen before. Fun.

In History, we got absolutely ripped into. Miss Adsett wasn't so bad, she just said she was very angry when she saw the results, but that'll be sorted in January with the re-sits. Miss Bryan-Jones however. Goodness me. She played the whole "I've never had a U" card on the class, and she's had the worst results in 30 years of teaching. So, on that basis, I'm royally fucked. I didn't get a U, but I know I'm not the best in the class by a country mile, so I need to work my bloody socks off if I want to go to University. Something I want to do more than anything.

And finally in French. To start, I'd like to say that I absolutely can't stand Miss Rees. So imagine my reaction when we realise that we have Miss Rowlands (my favourite teacher) twice, Miss West (my joint-favourite teacher) twice, and Miss Rees four times. In the space of two weeks. So we get the good teachers once a week. Brilliant. Oh, and we're studying a French script and a French book in those once-a-week lessons. And studying different themes in the twice-a-week lesson. Which sounds more difficult? Books or our current theme, La Radio? Ridiculous.

Oh, in the lesson we started our theme. That's it.

In other (literal) news, Kakutagate. Not heard of it? Maybe "Chelsea have been banned from signing any players in the Transfer Window until January 2011" will ring a bell? Yes? Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that is slightly harsh. Let's review.

According to FIFA and FC Lens, Chelsea are guilty of "inticing" a French youngster, Gael Kakuta, into breaking his contract with FC Lens to sign for Chelsea. Okay, that sounds bad. But, what strikes me, is that FIFA have banned Chelsea because of details that they're not completely certain about. Where in the flying fudges of Hell does that make sense? Oh and about this supposed contract that Kakuta had. He'd signed an agreement with Lens when he was 14, saying that as soon as he turns 17 (the legal age to be signed for a proffesional club in France) he will sign a proffesional contract. Okay, so if Chelsea sign him before he signs that contract, it is an issue. And they did sign him before that pro contract was signed. However. You have to be at least 16 to sign an agreement. So, Lens were breaking the law when they signed that deal in the first place. So, how can Chelsea break a contract that shouldn't exist in the first place? Lens didn't get done for doing that. But as soon as they find out Chelsea are involved, bang, they forget the original rule break and blame Chelsea for everything. As usual.

Sorry for the football rant for those who don't like football. But it's something that really, really pissed me off.

To conclude, I'm going to see District 9 on Wednesday, which I can't wait for.

So long, goodbye.