The sun breathed air

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Its mood reflects a sunny irreverence,
Crash and burn in a 60 mph zone.
It’s throne betrothed, and a moon to behold,
Excel to find and unfold what ancient skies behold.

A shape unknown,
What we’ve outgrown.
Trees breathe, smoggy air
A cold, still cold atmosphere.
No sooner we arrive, from what we leave,
The second we touch down, an ultimate indefinite crown. 

I’ll come back. I’ll come back again.

Climb higher into the fog,
Where officers warn and travelers clog
A desperate smile a handshake outworn, torn between,
extremities and undertake the moon that cries

Whisper whisper, a sound unspoken, 
Two touches, red black heights,
The fight of your life. 
A country with no voice. 
Unlucky and unwilling to be told,
Your too far gone and insignificant to hold.

Touch my arm, how does it feel.
Soft warm and uncomfortable,
All that particular spiel.

Black white and freckles outspoken, 
Sun glassed eyes, with little to no cartilage.
The incline of the mountain, the convoy leads Broken.

With snow unbound to reach the very top,
Stop, flop and drop a pass to be seated,
Upon mental and chair, suspended reaching, branching for a touch or a tap of a bush overhanging. 
Remain seated, arms at the waist, time to get off no time to waste.

Strap, secure and adjust. 

The wind echoes either side, the sun reflecting angelically sparkling like sprinkles upon a cake.
Guess the ending, whilst chaos and blame ensue.

Being sober in a club.

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Apres Avant-5.6.10 - 125We all know the drill with nightclubs right – drink, dance, smoke – increasingly frequent toilet brakes – then repeat in various different combinations – strangely the dancing usually consumes more of your time the more drunk you become. The experience, however, is entirely different when your not overspending on tequilas or dancing with single ladies your convinced want a piece – it is like a minefield, of crazed hormone-erratic  maniacs trying to seduce their woes into a numb salvageable pain.

The over-squirted scent of bubblegum and candyfloss cascade whilst bass-pumping and ground thumping speakers try their hardest to do the minimum amount of damage to your eardrums – and without the warm arms of alcohol to insulate your body standing in the cold is like taking a dip in an ice pool!

The weirdest thing is you start to try and justify what you’re doing, and why your trying to dance in that way, or pretend to smile at music you have no interest for, maybe trying to amuse yourself with two measly bitter-sweet drinks knowing that you can’t have anymore because you’ve got to drive home – either way, its like the worst experience in the world.

Even just trying to hold a drink among the screaming intoxicated rabble desperately trying impress their mates with a seemingly endless line of over-priced drinks is a mission. Just for the record the things that you think on a night out will be a great idea like people pretending to scream in selfies, or scantily clad women clambering tank-topped giants, with the elder gentlemen trying to fit in, gawking at what they’d wished they’d done in their youth – when your sober look damn right embarrassing, for all parties involved!

The  only solace that can be taken from an experience like this is that you realize you’re exactly the same on a night out – they are you, stumbling, fumbling and making an absolute fool out of themselves – a horrible realization – which has led me to the realization that clubs without alcohol would literally be the worst thing ever – like a year seven disco, replacing alcohol with sweets and fizzy drink!

Rule of thumb – if you’re going to a club sober, you’re going to have a bad time.

The view from the back of a lecture.

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I am sat two chairs in on the back row. I see the backs of heads staring desperately day-dreaming, unwillingly trying to shrug the hangover from the previous nights alcohol consumption – sweltering among body heat, broken radiators and insulation – heat only comparable to a scene from the puzzling pig-masking, murder mystery thriller Saw.

Rustling handouts, proceeded to interupt the lecturer spreading yet more ephemeral words to non-concentrate recipients, sporting a vibrant discombobulation half golf and half hiking attire – from top to bottom. Unrelenting waves of yawns, creaks and sighs flooded the room erupting like volcanoes and dampening the already disinterested crowd, followed by whispers from a rowdy bunch near the front row – not so very quietly telling others of the blast she’d had with her gal-pals – it sounded like suffocating, scrambling for air as you panic, wish and hope but in your last moments think of doubt, fear and somewhat acceptance.

Students scattered in twos and three clinging like pack animals; I was alone. On my right the incessant tapping of mac books distract me from the task at hand; concentration. My eyes drift and land on a helping hand, the co-managing lecturer, of the subject, sits beside the entrance. Her hair mangled and untamed, like a student, broken and unappreciated she smirks chortling merrily compressing the disfigured wrinkly-skin hanging from her chin.

My mind drifts pacing slowly towards the window, there is a gap that only appears every so often from an inadequate breeze slowly creeping in pushing the blackened blind from its purpose. There is a fence towering above a puddle. Sometimes a bird will sit in it, often it doesn’t, but sometimes it stands perplexed holding its chest out looking nonchalant in a stationary manner. With no pen and paper I sat trying to must some sort of aspiration to maintain my attention.

The fact the slides were in widescreen mode wasn’t aiding my cause, an apology had been issued but technical appliances can only absorb so much incompetence from human users. His words sail awkwardly across the room, comfortably piercing our auditory receptors.

Purple, pink and blue, rest aggressively asserting in the corner of my eye. I turn facing this multi-coloured monster. Slabbed, draped and inconclusively strawberry short-cake splattered clown look-a-like wearing fake-glasses the size of the moon. She sits slumped chewing her necklace, when her phone vibrates. She instantly picks up, unlocks and replies to her “lover” ending the message in the more X’s than Simpson Halloween specials!

The time finally runs out, and coming to the end of something unbearably uninteresting could never have felt better, only afterwards realizing that I just paid £103 to not pay an ounce of attention.

Anarchy in the car park!

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maxresdefaultToday, whilst on a weekly shop with my compadres, we experienced something that can only be described as anarchy. Shopping at Asda is our main source of food, so we go almost every week or so, but we never expected this!

After turning into the multi-story car park, we couldn’t believe what we saw. Animals they were, trying to weave, dodge, rev and cut in front of others just to get a space. They were wild; I had never seen anything like it. Their deathly stare as they tried to assert their dominance was grimacing.  Children crying in the back of eight-seaters because mothers and father a-like had been bellowing their horns, furious and outraged. We sat stationary; perplexed. It was like a mechanical scene from Mean Girls!

One particularly brazen individual, attempted to reverse into a gap he had narrowly missed – to which the man behind, supposed beta-male, decided that he was far superior and masculine to allow this self-righteous hick to take “his” spot that he had aligned so perfectly – ending in a battle of wits, until the two “gentleman” resorted to shouting , only ending the confrontation with one of them stepping down – I should probably write an e-mail to MTV, i’m sure they’d love to make a reality show of it – call it Cardiff Car Parks!

Why can’t courtesy exist among the parker’s of cars – there is something about it that is so blood-boiling and aggravating that leaves drivers incapacitated with rage. Although there are exception, as with everything. If everyone just took their turn the system would work much better. Or even a system that revolved around being given a space that is known to be free upon entering the car park – sorted – goodbye angry mothers, brothers and cousins! Rant, prematurely over, I guess.

On top of a table.

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Upon the table stood a thirty-two inch Alba perching against the east facing wall which stared precariously over the condiments that were mangled, overlapping and oddly placed. A green translucent jug, sticky and overturned, lie between empty bottles of beer and cracked glass. Plates, scattered and covered in scraps of uneaten food. Post-stick notes together and separate, ripped and untouched stuck to deodorant cans and caps of bottle drunk. Tobacco pouches strewed and tawny orange stains littered the laminate wood, that it rested on. The pitter-patter of mouse clicks, keyboard keys, and Xbox buttons hung like wasted decibels only outweighed by the bellowing screams of a kettle. Disks, cards and sunglasses accompanied the collaborative mess almost pushing the boundaries close to falling off the edge. The remnants of takeaways past chewed, spewed and splattered with sauces of red, brown and white in a rustling grease paper box. A consumed peach schnapps bottle held its structural dominance standing triumphant among the scuttling rubbish surrounding it. Pointless receipts and stubby coloured glasses, designed for shots, held up a half full packet of JB like ants couriering their food to their queen. Carved keys, and wallets encapsulated the unending growth of the taxing environment that sustained all walks of life, from ants to moths. The smell of poultry, ash and regret licked effervescently above and beyond the table dissipating further into it’s surrounding. Cigarettes burnt and stubbed into, lids of plastic, tin and yoghurt pots still with foil half covering the only accessible point.  Green and continually bending plastic garden chairs tucked under, pushed out and somewhere in between allowed the makers of this wasteland to continue, essentially enabling the tables demise. Once friends they now feared one another, as the scratches and screeches of the chairs moving position startled the compressed fibers that made up the four legs of the table; striking fear, angst and disappointment within an old friend. It had long been since the table held nothing but it’s own weight, it wondered if it ever would.

Power Rangers The Movie Drinking Game

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After coercing our film-loving, plot-illuminating housemate, Meg,  into watching the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. We decided that instead of watching this like the sober finches of the Galapagos, we would endure the ninety minute calamity-classic doing a shot every time we noticed a cliché catchphrase like “see ya later alligator” – Ivan Ooze, intentionally compromising pun “I’ve got a bone to pick with you” – White Power Ranger (whilst fighting dinosaur skeletons), and ridiculous music that is played over scenes of no importance at all.

So the rules are simple – a sip, of a prolonged duration for minor instances of cheesy: behaviour, lines, music, sayings, bad green screens – the key is to be understanding of where each incident could be categorically organized into a scale; so anything 5> would be sip and 6< would be a shot! The drink of course is your decision, the shot is always nice to have something between the strength of vodka but stronger than schnapps – not too much and not too little, that’s the dream!

After twenty minutes of rib-tickling, lip-smacking idioms of far too obvious description, a bottle and half of shots has been annihilated. Continuous hand shaking and rhino-mercenary but-kicking has lead me to believe that this is the future of student drinking games. Never before have over-dramatic news broadcasts, and villain-induced witticisms been so damaging to ones liver!

Just to mention: “uh oh, were in trouble” – is genuinely part of the soundtrack. They also have a giant red button which kick’s other specifically similar sized robots in the metal genitals – convenient.

During one scene, you may remember, a rhino explodes into thousand of pieces after being corkscrew kicked so hard – needless to say a lot of alcohol has been consumed. Not even mentioning the collective skating, hand shaking, cockpit-swaying, child-filled mono-railing, glass-shattering building shaking brilliance that the power rangers ensue,

One genuine issue about the film is the fist-pumping white ranger has to be the leader – of course, seems a little racist, considering the black ranger is reduced to being a frog! – well done Brian Spicer! Some may say it was a different time back then, others simply suggesting that being the black ranger surely the crotch is the most appropriate place for him – can hardly imagine the white ranger having an equally sized time down there – ah stereotypes.

So spread the word, drink the dream and think – what would Zordon do?!

Time.

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I drift away, my mood coinciding with the dust on the ground. No movement or sound is heard, every drag bringing me closer to that moment. I Move towards the light. I see clarity. My body enthralled, shaking from side to side. Feet restless, conscious non-existence. My eyes close and my final breath fills me with thoughts of youth and beauty as I stare openly. Memories turn from black to gold. Then back again. Finally the darkness takes hold of me. Its hands cold, ominous and liberating. Sore vile nails pierce my skin. I screech. I am propelled through the floor boards. Cracking, banging and clanging into an endless chasm. Fear chasing me. It’s breath tormenting and unforgiving. When an unearthly entity slows my decent, pausing instantaneously before we touch the asphalt ground. I am confronted by two doors. The option toys with me. If I choose left, who knows. If I choose right, who knows. Curiosity bends my soul. My perspective unfocused. Eyes blotched. I choose. The door swings open; almost breaking the hinges. Smoke curls across the floor, crawling towards me. It surrounds me. No sight. No direction. No sound. No air. Nothing. Complete. Pure. Time stops.