Angry rants of altered suburbia

Read part 1 here

Part 2: A stitch in time

After surviving a summer that included a hectic four day writing marathon (fookin’ thesis) that appeased my sense of guilt, I pretty much found myself directionless.

Those first days of September, how cold were they. I could see most of the days fritter away from the window at the top of my new, cold house.

Yes, it was a stark reminder of my time ahead.

Still, no one likes to be a gloomy Gus and my inherent knack for procrastinating is winning the battle against my inability to actually get off me arse and do summink.

I would delve into that, but I don’t feel like it.

So there I was, another Monday, another pasty from the Union, with something that tasted like Nescafé drained through very smelly socks.

Fair trade my zits.

Alas, people flyering around, as always, on the concourse area of this fair union. I tried gulping that repulsing concatenation passing as coffee, but the sheer awfulness of it made my gag reflex wake up.

I’ll mess with my taste buds and instead bite into the pasty, wondering if amidst its sea of suede and potato there’s any meat (or anything with a passing resemblance of).

People from societies pepper me with flyers and whatnot. A triptych for a society having a debate about the significance of smashed-up Jaffa Cakes in Jimmy Saville and Terry Wogan’s new Poppy Day single? Sure, it happened.

I notice those two girls from Corp are giving out fliers again. I dunno, I have a bit of history with them. They are giving me that sideway glance look and I’m not sure if I’ve done anything to deserve it (in the last 3 weeks, of course!)

So I keep biting my pasty and lo and behold, a piece of meat! Suddenly, my seemingly meatless Cornish pasty becomes a veritable cornucopia of … hmm… mystery meat!

Anyways, what did I, evil meat eater that deserves an ear punch from Moz, know about meat?

And it was in one of my bite-chew-gulp cycles that I felt it. Was it you, my dearest Angel of Death, beckoning me to your realm in that sweet Amy Lee* voice you have?

Is this I? Am I going to die and turn into whoever is replacing cutie pie David Tennant?

No, it was that stinging pain, surging from my right toe. Fookin’ uric acid, it is YOU again, my unfaithful lover!

I stumbled towards the NHS, dragging my right foot and damning my eating disorders.

Then, a design of luck made an avalanche of freshers going (or coming) to (or from) lectures complicate my already jinxed journey. Again I was bombarded by flyers and even a free hug (hey, cute redhead, add me on facebook!)

Then I saw them. It was those two punk rocking girls. They were staring at me, with murder in their eyes. Is this their doing? What sort of phantasmagoria is this?

And more importantly: are they single?

No, wait! Focus!

The air becomes colder and their hair begins to stand. I hear the wail of death (played tonight by Chris Martin) and in a desperate search for final words, I yell:

“FAIR TRADE IS OVERRATED!”

A cacophony of shouts and abuse from communist, self-righteous students (TM Jeremy Clarkson) works its way towards me like a gust of halitosis-ridden wind. Funny thing happened then, as it turns the stir of voices and Chris Martin’s horrible wail made the Union building enter a state of resonance**, making the entrance of the Union a pretty quaint pile of rubber and film posters.

So, yeah, apologies for that. It wasn’t a barrage of fans clamouring for the head of the geezer that nicked the “Twilight” poster (that was me, sorry about that), but it was little old me having a losing argument with a pasty.

But, hey, you get a new and expensive, shiny Union building and I managed to stop eating meat. Also, I’m wanted on three accounts of structural damage, but let’s face it, I’m not going to be remembered for anything else.

*Actually, Death has a voice similar to Kelly Clarkson. FACT!!! [citation needed]

**Actually, it’s aerolastic flutter. Search it on wikipedia, kiddies!

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