Category Archives: My Thoughts

The sun breathed air



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.


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.



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!


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.

Power Rangers The Movie Drinking Game



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?!



Before my eye line lies a monster, an ephemeral jack in the box. Taunting my needs, craving for more. Maybe my extrovert nature sediments my behaviour, categorizing it into over-characterizing traits. Slowly but surely tearing me piece by piece. The digits 1 and 3 so close they almost touch, fonts equally dictating their distance. An inescapable truth, a follower, but for what – a sign?

For it seems far too convenient for me to think that this is anything more than coincidence, I can only observe. Everywhere I look. I turn my back, looking nearsightedly into memories searching for unrelated clues.  How a birthday or a numerical equivalent of the alphabet can force memories to be depicted and remembered only by one thing. I do not understand the logic of coincidence – fatuous by design, I believe.

It stares pretentiously reflecting its value against itself, often holding no meaning until one is projected unto it. Maybe it’s a pastime I’ve subconsciously retained, trying to associate an unstrung string of moments that define me – how deep is too deep? Draw me a line between inference and insinuation and tell yourself that it can’t be coincidence that we think alike.

Why 13? – If i knew, I’d let you know.

Things I’ll miss as a 90’s kid



As a young whipper-snapper things like computers were still too expensive for middle class ‘muggles’ like ourselves to have in our home, and my parents didn’t have enough money to buy a television and what-not. Now this may not be the case for the other nineties kids, but, the principle is applicable nonetheless. Before the techno-boom of the millennium, here are some things I will miss about being a young boy:

Sega Genesis:
I remember me and my brother furiously slapping and tapping ginormous robust buttons, whilst trying to maneuver a stick-shift, joystick – hardest thing ever – but by god if it wasn’t some of the best gaming I’ve ever experienced. zooming blue, pixelated across the screen trying to grab as many oddly shaped coins and defeat the comically large Dr, Eggman – who incidentally didn’t look a lot like an egg. My father eventually became outrageously distressed by something my behaviorally indifferent brother had done, to which he tried to chew and throw the game cartridge into bin, which he missed and thus ended up enraging him more, ah the 90’s.

Fire station play-mat:
If you didn’t have one of these, stop reading, actually you can stay, you might learn a thing or two about a 5 year old’s 2D GTA. I can’t tell you how many hours I logged on this mat, pretending there was a fire at the church or a plane had crashed at the police station, or a burglar had stolen from the shops – I only just realized how disturbing that is as a five year old to imagine. However, it did give me carpet burn, and perspective, I realized after about two years that it was just a mat, these weren’t real people – the world does sort of work the same as I imagined but at least then It was just pretend, and that’s what made it special.

Turkey Twizzlers:
foodsofengland twizzler

To this day, I can still remember the beautifully crispy breaded outer layer combined with the tongue twirling, lip smacking, heart stopping – literally – taste as all those years ago I bit into a good old turkey twizzler. Post-discovery of superstore giants like Tesco supposedly unaware that horse meat had been introduced into the acclaimed 100% beef burgers that they so proudly boasted about, now why did we let that pretentious budgie smuggler Jamie Oliver eradicate them from our diet, when I can guarantee that you all still shop at Tesco. Anyway, farewell old buddy, you will be sorely missed.


I only experienced half of the 90’s and you could argue that I’ve spent more of my life this side of the millennium, actually that is kind of a fact, but I guess that sinking feeling fades, that sense of familiarity illuminates, and everything feels safe again. You knew exactly who you were and exactly what you were doing. So in 2020 I guess i’ll be reminiscing about the simpler times of the 2010’s – strange.




Protruding my knowledge, a scene of deprivation
when necessity met greed, they both turned askew.
A young life given the slightest attention,
no longer a child, my relationship with you; I outgrew.

A seat sat reserved, alas there was no one to fill it,
come to my year six production, I thought would be the key
but forgone your last chance, you’ll have no receipt
I was only hoping your attention was directed at me.

Encountering those moment, where time stands still;
scrolling your phone to illuminate what lies and cheats
Your condescending embrace, to soften your ever harsher tone
This facade carelessly dumped upon strangers; the cycle repeats

Age and responsibility, only encouraged belittling care
my pubescent endeavors conflict, yet you never saw a thing
because you’ve done so well to be chastised by your bad will,
why should I be punished for my own upbringing?

I see my sibling who disregard any affection,
I see friends who won’t, don’t and can’t understand.
That there is no greater feeling,
than someone holding your hand.

How NOT to get a job


Speaking from personal experience, it can be extremely demoralizing and competitive when trying to secure a job. I’m not even talking about, what I like to call a “Career job”, I’m talking about those remedial and unsatisfying “Micky mouse job”. This is a guide of how to never get employed ever, because in the current jobnomic climate it is almost inevitable that me, and maybe including you won’t ever get a “Micky mouse job” – some of you might consider this advantageous, but, believe me the world revolves around money.

About you: 

To achieve maximum rejection, when speaking about oneself it is best to sound as pretentious as possible, god knows they wouldn’t want anyone intelligent to work in their hellish institution and don’t even dare let them know you’re genuine and unique because every employer knows that is the sign of psychotic employee.  Honesty can be your one way ticket to dismissal-ville, a good old trick to deter those pesky employers and their power to allow you to earn money – inconsiderate.


It is always good to have a large range of skills up your sleeve to impress your employer: Climbing trees, opening a bottle with a lighter, taking two attempts to open the freezer, being able to hold your breath for a minute, extremely neat handwriting, being able to do a handstand, being able to catch three pennies one after the other and juggling. These practical accomplishments will astonish and exclusively discourage anyone from employing you – mission accomplished.


Nothing is more valued to an employer than an extensive education, so if you’ve got straight A’s you’ve just secured yourself a position last in line for the candidates they’re actually considering, because they all know that who better to go on and do something great than the punk with straight A’s – where do they get off?


The thing about getting a job is it is almost impossible to preempt what they actually want from you (other than your soul and social life) so providing hobbies gives them an inside look at what you personally find worthwhile, so to solidify the chances of your CV being crumpled and thrown in the waste paper bin. You should include unbelievable hobbies such as playing a sport or playing an instrument which is bound to ruin your chances of getting a job due to your lack of ingenuity – right, right!


Lets face it, after what are you trying to prove, that you are competent and able to hear, that you can be a good lacky and do what you’re told. Well here are my responsibilities: I feed myself, I can talk, I have ears and can in fact hear using them, I have eyes and can see. Giving them a list like this will certainly prove a point, but no good idea goes without a hitch, so to top it off you could mention that you are not even responsible for you’re own breathing and that your organs are doing it for you – you irresponsible P****

Thanks society.