These are the things I could live with out. Especially after that piece of shite.

Did you see what I did there? The first half is part of a song that England used as their official World Cup song - Shout by James Corden and Dizzee Rascal, which to be fair, is a tune. However, I flipped it all on its head with the second part, meaning what is normally an influencial song for England leaving them feeling they could've won the World Cup, now means that they didn't as they were a "piece of shite." Well done RBJ, superb creative skills there.

You don't have to read this one, guys - it's about football.

The World Cup.

Let me just start off by saying that, as you've probably guessed, I'm a huge football fan. Let's not beat around the bush here. Football is such a huge part of my life, I always look forward to the next World Cup, or the next European Championship. Hell, as soon as the regular football season is finished, I'm looking forward to the next one, which, incidentally, unofficially starts on Saturday where Chelsea play Crystal Palace in a Friendly. But you couldn't care less about that. Now, however, I think I might cross off looking forward to the World Cup from my list. It was diabolical this summer. Absolutely diabolical. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

I'd just like to point out that I'm writing this at, to be exact, 2:36 AM on a Tuesday morning. Yes.

I was looking forward to the World Cup for weeks and weeks and weeks. I kept saying "WORLD CUP STARTS NEXT WEEK AAAHHHH", which is me on a normal day. I do shout things. Normally at people, but never in an angry way. Why, you may ask. Well, I personally have no idea. It's just me, shouting is one of my many past times, which regularly increases depending on the time of day, and the situation. But I digress. Yes, I was excited. The first match? I was out. Excellent. But I'd heard it really wasn't a great match at all. So that's not a great start. I seriously believe that I watched 3 matches for the full 90 minutes all the way through. No word of a lie, I could watch Chelsea for days on end, but this international tournament I just wasn't interested. Wimbledon was on at the same time, I found it far more interesting and entertaining to watch that rather than the World Cup.

The 3 matches I did watch all the way through were England's horrificly bad group matches, which they drew, drew and scraped a victory. Seriously, England were seriously terrible. They played 4 matches in the tournament. How many goals did they score? 3. That's a proper shocker. Rooney, second highest scorer in the Premiership, got 0. Lampard, the most prolific midfielder in Premiership history, got 0. England's goalscorers were Steven Gerrard (now, statistically, the worst England captain of all time. Just throwing that into the mix), Defoe and Upson. None of whom are renowned goalscorers. Capello, the England manager, genuinely doesn't have a clue how to manage an international team, for two reasons. 1) He can't speak the language. He basically has to get his translator to do every interview for him. And 2) He's a prize twat. He's an arrogant, self-obsessed (I think they're the same thing, but as you were) Italian shitfaced fuck who thinks he can just waltz into a normally half-decent International team and balls it all right up. He didn't have a clue. He chose the 11 supposed best players, and made them play a standard 4-4-2 formation. For those who have no idea what "a standard 4-4-2 formation" is, I'll draw a diagram below. With the England team that fucked up in the World Cup.

  Robert Green

Glen Johnson-----Ledley King-------John Terry-----Ashley Cole

Aaron Lennon----Frank Lampard---Steven Gerrard---James Milner

       Emile Heskey----------Wayne Rooney

That's how they lined up in the first game of the World Cup, as in they'd be in those positions across the pitch, with the occasional change where, say, Lampard would go further up the field to support Heskey and Rooney. But you couldn't give less of a shit, could you? Thought not. Anyway, they lined up like that. I'll point out the faults.

1) Robert Green. You must know who Robert Green is. Maybe this picture will refresh your memory.

Yeah, that Robert Green. He's normally a good goalkeeper, but he's no where near World Cup standard.

2) Ledley King. Why was he picked in the first place? This is a player who can't even train at all because he has such a fucked up knee. This is a player who can't even have a kick about in his garden with his 5 year old son because he has such a fucked up knee. I'm sure you can see how he was a fault. Incidentally, he got injured during the first half of the first match, and never played again.

3) Frank Lampard & Steven Gerrard. They can't play together. Simple as that. When you put these two in an England team, it's like putting chocolate on a pile of shit. They look the same, but it's just wrong. They're too similar in how they play. By putting those two in the centre of the pitch together, you're cancelling one of their abilities by making him stay back to help defend, because they're both attacking midfielders. Gerrard isn't even a midfielder anymore for Liverpool, he plays as a striker.

4) Emile fucking Heskey. He's the biggest joke ever to grace a World Cup stadium, seriously. He has 62 Caps for England. He's been playing for England a good 10 years or so. How many goals has he got? For a striker, you should bet it's good. Not quite. He's scored 7. 7 goals in 10 years of football? For a striker, he should be embarrassed. Peter Crouch, the 6 foot 7 inch monster of a striker, was only called up to the England squad two years ago, he has maybe 40 Caps, and he's scored more than 20 goals. How does that work out?

5) Fabio Capello. That really is all I have to day. He's a dickhead.

So there you have it. A comprehensive round up of why England were screwed from the beginning. They never had a chance, and everyone thought they could go on to win it. My fucking arse.

The World Cup was, all in all, utter shit. There was hardly any excitement whatsoever over the course of the tournament. Maybe two good games? By the end, I resorted to not watching any of it, and getting goal flashes from my football fanatic brother. Shocking. And, you'd expect the Final would be half decent. I didn't watch it, but my Dad told me it was an absolute disgrace. This tackle sums it up for me.

On request from CrazyDistortion:

Yeah. No joke. He didn't even get sent off for that.

Fuck you, FIFA, for ruining my World Cup experience.

Interesting fact for you: You'd expect my 3AM blog to be full of mistakes. Turns out, I had one spelling mistake. There we are, readers, trust RBJ to end this scathing blog on a high note!

You're off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz.

All I have to say is that while I write this, Wizard of Oz is on the Telebox. That's all I have to say on the matter.

My avid readers may be aware that I've actually been blogging for almost two years now, and as I've mentioned on numerous occasions, exams are the main topic of my posts. I am sorry for such a mundane topic to be the focus of my writings, but my life simply isn't entertaining or action packed enough in order to fulfil your high expectations. Sadly though, I have three topics to wet your appetites today, one of which is the dreaded exams.

June 24th was the day I finished my exams, with the incredibly long French exam. And, in all fairness, it could've been a hell of a lot worse. Everyone in my class hated it, whereas I liked it. As a result, I'm insanely worried about what result I'll get when it comes to August 19th. My results have already been decided, whether I get into University or not has already been decided. Scariest thought I've ever had. Nothing I can do about it now though. I'm scared, readers. I'm scared. History, again, could've been much worse, and though the Britain paper was far nicer for me than the Germany paper, I don't think I did disastrously in either of them. I've already bored you with the Drama details in a previous blog, so I won't repeat myself.

The second of my topics, which leads nicely to the third, is the Summer Holidays. When I'd finished my exams, there was a slight lull while we waited for everyone to finish their exams, but as soon as it finished, I was expecting the flood gates to open leading to day after day after day of endless enjoyment - turns out it's not quite like that. Summer is simply a day of fun, and then maybe two or three days of sheer boredom. That's the honest truth, nothing happens! Which is rather frustrating, but it's what I can expect, living off scraps of money seen as finding a job is basically impossible these days. However, soon enough, Rhys Taylor, Ffion Rees, Ellen Morgan, Sarah West, Ieuan Matthews and I are buggering off to Spain for a week, which should be pretty epic.

Finally, due to my continuous imprisonment within the barren walls of my house, I have bounds of free time. I've tried to pass the time by playing on my Xbox, watching some television, watching the odd movie, but to no avail. Especially on school days, my boredom begins from around 2pm, and considering I arise from the land of nod at around 1pm, that really isn't brilliant. So, having become insanely excited having watched the latest Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows trailer (I'll post you a link at the end as it's totally brilliant. Anyone who hasn't seen it doesn't deserve an existence, in all honesty), I've decided to read Deathly Hallows once again. And I never realised how exceptionally well written the book is before. I know the book inside out, but now that I'm taking my time to read every paragraph in great detail, JK Rowling knows how to use a pen. So many things she says are essential to understanding the ending - SPOILER ALERT - for instance, just before "The Wedding", Harry and Ginny have a moment where they kiss even after Harry had finished their relationship at the end of Half-Blood Prince. Soon after, Ron starts shouting at Harry for "messing her about", which means Harry says something along the lines of "Look, it's not as if she wants us to get married or something!" Originally, I saw that as a simple passing comment, but now, you can see how much time and effort JKR put into writing this wondrous series of books. High appraisal to you, Joanne. Also, according to her Twitter, she hasn't updated it in a while as "pen and paper is [her] priority at the moment." Meaning, another Harry Potter epic? Or the rumoured children's series she's working on? I'm hoping the former, as she's now one of the great writers of my generation, I need another new book series to start reading from scratch.


Reading is such an important part of my life. I can't believe I went through a period of literally months without reading anything. What spurred me to do that? I have Deathly Hallows to read at the moment, and then I have a thriller to read called "The Charlemagne Pursuit", which sounds half decent. By the time I finish that, the seventh Artemis Fowl book should be out! Happy days.


God, I love reading.

Oh, I almost forgot, here's the Harry Potter trailer I'm obsessed with!

One thing.

Once again, this will be an insanely short post, but I just want to pose a question to you all.

Why the hell do you read my blogs? Currently, I hope the standard has risen past the juvenile posts of old, namely the first maybe 20 posts I ever wrote on here? The first post ever is utter drivel, my "That Cheat Gerrard" one just makes me sound pathetic. God, I hope I've changed passed those awful blog writing skills.

This blog was far too short, it was a waste of time, so I'll give you some YouTube stuff to intrigue you.







Finally, penis.

That's better.

N.B. Something went wrong with the YouTube videos, they're disproportionate to the blog. I tried to fix it, but to no avail.

Exampanicverse Update!

Hi.

Earlier, I basically freaked out to you lot. My dearest apologies, but I did have a panic attack, I felt like I was going to just break down. But, I calmed down, revised some more History and relaxed a bit in front of Junior Apprentice, Modern Family, Big Brother and Family Guy. Yes, I watch too much television, but you should know that by now. On a side note, Big Brother looks like it's going to be a belter this year, it's brilliant so far! Anyway, after my rest, I was about to go to bed, when as usual, my Dad plucks up a conversation about French with me, in particular L'Etranger (the book we're studying). We talked for maybe 15 minutes and it really made me feel so much better about the exam I have on the 24th of this month - French, surprisingly. Now, it's like I've suddenly realised that I can actually do French. I feel so much more confident about my essay, my listening and my translating. Dad's really are a wonderful thing. Except when you ask them to pick you up in the middle of the night in a dark and scary place, commonly known as Pontypridd. Damn you, Last Minute Martin! For future reference, anytime you see "LMM" in a blog, that's what it means. I phrase coined by Adam Hill.

History is still fucked, mind. But that's okay. Thus, I just wanted to update you all on the little relapse I had. So ends my shortest post to date. Be privileged, you only lost a few minutes your life!

Times They Are A-Changing

Well this is different. I don't know why I decided to change it all around, but it was time for a little spice. My old blog was boring, it was just plain blue and wasn't very nice to look at. This blog has some weird castle building in the top corner which I'll probably look into changing as it's just not me. Well wasn't that a kerfuffle. I won't bore you with the details, but it in short, it involved actually changing the administration of this whole blog. Though, on the plus side, all my Google accounts (Blogger, YouTube, AdSense) are on my Yahoo account. Hurrah for boring you all to death in the first paragraph.

Well, there we go. After 7 years at Ysgol Gyfun Rhydfelen, it's all over. Every lesson, every hour of work is now rendered more or less meaningless, outside of History and French as I still have those exams to go, yes, but Mathematics, Science, English, Welsh, IT, RE, Sports, DT - all of which have now delved into the never ending black hole that is my mind, and will probably never be seen again, with the possible exception of Mathematics, as I will undoubtedly use my Maths skills when I get my dead end job of working in a factory what make pork pies, said the West Country Farmer. Hands up who read that last bit again with a West Country accent? None of you? Oh, okay, moving on. Yes, my school life is over, hardly any of which will be relevant to me in the future. But, without those seemingly irrelevant subjects, my University dream would never be realised, and as it stands, I'm 2 exams away from making it or not. Bloody hell, I never thought of it that way before.

You may recall, or you won't, that my last blog was a xenophobic rant that was pretty much entirely devoid of any great writing structure. Apologies for that, dear reader. Where this blog is going, I have no idea. We'll see what springs to mind.

Exam time has approached. And far too quickly for my liking. One of which has already been and gone (Drama) and I was surprised that it didn't go as bad as I thought it was going to go. The questions were simple enough, and in the third question - you're going to love this - we have to design a stage and set for an unseen text that we read in the allotted time (I don't know if that's the right word...oh, according to blogger spell checker it is! Well done, RBJ, four and a half gold stars for you) and I decided to use a Thrust stage (don't ask). A Thrust stage has a sort of big catwalk leading from the normal stage out into the middle of the audience. Sounds reasonable enough. Until I thought it would be brilliant to add a pond to the end of the stage. If you can't picture it, I actually drew a picture of it on paint, and here's the finished article:


















It made me laugh as soon as I'd drawn it, but because I'd thought up the whole symbolism behind this stage, I kept it in to make me more memorable for the examiner, though probably for the wrong reason. Namely, the aforementioned diagram.

History and French still to come. History I'm aiming for a C. I know everyone always says "Aim for the A*!" but to be honest, fuck you all. A C is what I want, it'll get me into Univeristy, as long as I get an A in French. That, on the other hand, I have to get it. Not aim for it, get it. I have absolutely no hope. I'm maybe 2 marks off it as of my AS results. Sounds promising. But looking back I don't think my oral exam went all that well. I stumbled a few times, and even though I kept talking, I realised just after I said it that I got some of my verbs wrong. God dammit. The French exam is out of 98, stupid WJEC making it awkward. I'm going to need probably 90 at least of those marks. Can I do it? No fucking way. Gah. Why did I set my bar too high? Why? For fuck's sake. But then, to get into my second choice, I need a B in History. So screw my aforementioned thought, I'm aiming for a B in History. If I don't get that, or I don't get an A in French, that's it. My life is basically ruined. All my friends will be off to University, and I'll be sat at home, doing fuck all with my life. I can claim I'm taking a gap year, but fuck it, I'm not getting in to University, I might aswell state the obvious.

Bloody hell that was a depressing paragraph. And I think I better leave it at that. I need to learn some more French vocabulary. God help me.

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.