No-No Square

And another song by the talented Mr Landels.


Chester and the No-No Square
(To the tune of: Call me Maybe, Carly Rae Jepsen, 2012.)

I was attracted to you
When we were bailing B2,
Our love of graveyarding grew
Out in the bucket line.
You told me Shrek was your pal
And I was your kinda gal',
You helped me up when I fell
And then it was break time...

And soon tea was flowing,
Cattle eyes following,
Rape alarms were going,
I just had to tell you... 

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy...
But that square's No-No! 
So please don't rape me! 
I mighta led you on, when I said 'Take me...'
But that square's No-No! 
So please don't rape me!

Before you came into my life
It was okay, Yes it was okay,
But it was just okay...
Now you've got kind of creepy
And your bucket, it's leaky
So I say 'No way!'
Yes I say 'No, no way!

You said Chester was your name
And molesting was your game
I thought a joke was to blame,
But now I'm not so sure!
When you invaded my porch
Only wearing a headtorch
And said you'd soon make me scorch
I knew you weren't so pure...

Wild shapes you were throwing,
Your eyes - they were glowing,
Rape alarms were going,
I just had to tell you...

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy...
But that square's No-No!
So please don't rape me!
I mighta led you on, when I said 'Take me...'
But that square's No-No!
So please don't rape me!

Before you came into my life
It was okay,
Yes it was okay,
But it was just okay...
Now you've got kind of creepy
And your bucket, it's leaky
So I say 'No way!'
Yes I say 'No, no way!

No Restrepo for the wicked

I haven't really said much about the work I'm doing at the moment. well, I'm back in the warm bosom of the University of York, teaching their first year students which end of a trowel to use and how to draw different kinds of mud to a quasi-scientific level. These skills are the kind they will need when they are deciding which bag of Tesco value frozen sausages they should buy (pork flavour with added sawdust or beef flavour with 50% chicken lips) since they won't be able to afford any other kind of food with the pittance that 'professional' field archaeologists are paid. Most of them have come through the clearing system, which basically means that they wanted to study history but as they didn't get the grades they ended up studying the hand maiden of History, Archaeology. Of the ten in my group only two actually wanted to do archaeology as a degree. One of whom has had the worst attendance of the group. I ask you.

If you're not careful, this is how you'll end up...

Having said that, my group are the best for attendance this year out of the whole site (four other groups of ten). But I have habitually had at least one missing each day. She has been missing so consistently that I believe she doesn't even exist. Even the University staff proper have no idea who she is. Maybe she was a phantom name that was invented in order to make the others look good. The rest of the group are your usual students, it's a bit like the Breakfast Club, the brain, the athlete, the basket case, the princess, the criminal, the serial killer, the train driver, the pornographer, high priestess of Satan, the turkey farmer. You know, the usual kind of people. Two of the girls seem to show up either hungover from the night before or still drunk, having got home at about 5am after kissing boys and getting sick down their tops in the Willow. One of them, let's call her Lowrie, was telling me about the Afro-Caribbean Society that she was secretary of when she was at school. The membership was low. It consisted of three people: two blondes and a Jew. These two keep complaining whenever I drop the 'C-Bomb', which is pretty much every other word when they are not working hard enough, which is all the time.

'YOU WORK NOW!'

These are not the only problems I have to deal with, there is another student, let's call this one Myles, who turned up last Monday painted blue. He also goes around singing the Rebbecca Black song 'Friday' until all you want to do it pound his miserable head into the ground. But he's so bloody happy and nice all the time it would be like kicking a puppy. He wrote an article for the official blog that mentioned me. Read it here.

Idiot

Anyway, that's enough of that shit. Tomorrow is the best day in the calender! It's the Eurovision Song Contest! I've been invited to two parties, one in Sheffield and one in Iceland. Can you guess which one I might go to? Well, I would, but I can't afford the plane fair to Reykjavik, so Sheffield will have to do instead. As Norway have already been kicked out at the semi finals it looks like I'll have to back my home from home, Ireland and Jedward:

Finally, I got hold of my old bear skin rug. I think it looks boss in the front room:

Floundering in a Sea of Dunces and Incompetency

Check this out: On Wednesday I went down to Rotherham Job Centre to sign on as usual on every other Wednesday. This time it was slightly different however. This time I had something to say when they asked 'have your circumstances changed at all?' Yes, I replied, yes they have. I had work for York University on Thursday and Friday. As this was legitimate and going through the books, then I thought it best to declare it. When you sign on you are allowed to work up to sixteen hours in a week and still claim your benefits. As the work was only about fourteen hours I was well within this limit, so I thought I'd do the responsible citizen thing and tell them before I worked that I was working. I told the fat lump of a lady who resembled a big dollop of shit in a hessian sack tied up tightly with string sitting behind the desk about my impeding work. Now, from previous experience I had been told that I would have to get in touch with the Barnsley Office to sort out my declaration of work. The piece of useless crap behind the desk asked me to sign on, then handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on to call and sort out an appointment when I got home. I didn't really look at the number but called it when I got home and the phone was answered by some fucking insect in the ROTHERHAM JOB CENTERE!

The Job Centre: Don't bother trying to get work!

Literally: What The Fuck? I had been there not half an hour previously! I had sat in front of a big pile of excrement and told her I had work, she sent me away with a phone number for the SAME FUCKING OFFICE SHE WORKED IN!! The fat lazy sack of dogshit couldn't be bothered to press the mouse button a few times or pick up the telephone in her pudgy fingers, mash the buttons with her sausage fingers and arrange the appointment for me there and then. I fucking despair, I really do. Office work sucks the fucking life out of people, the Job Centre seems to do more so than any other job. Mind you, working in a place that seems to consist of endless lines of tracksuit wearing fucktards demanding to know where their 'fucking giro' is would be enough to grind anyone down. But for that lazy shitbag to not even bother calling upstairs for me is beyond the Pale. How humanity ever managed to get to the Moon is beyond me...

'Houston, this is Eagle One, come in, over'
'Hello, you have reached the Houston voicemail service, we are all at lunch, please leave your message after the tone...'

Anyway, the job I was doing was teaching York University students how to field walk in a proper and archaeological sense. It was a right laugh, I basically strutted around like I owned the place, shouted at the students to work harder and laughed at them when it rained. I was staying at Anna's place for the night where she fed me a steak as big as MY FUCKING HEAD and gave me sausage sandwiches for lunch on Friday. Happy days.

Om Nom Nom...

But... Whilst in York I was also checking out a three bedroomed house Lauren had found on the Internet. I will be working in York for a period of about three months along with Lauren and we both thought it would be a good idea to get a house for the time we are there. Lauren has a shorter period to work, but the Evil Docktor Clay will move in for the last month as he and I shall be working together again. Allow me to clarify that for you. I need a house for three months. Lauren needs it for five weeks, THEN Clay will move in for the last period. Simple yes? Lauren contacted this house advertised on Gumtree and explained that we needed TWO ROOMS for THREE MONTHS. Simple? I went and saw the house, talked to the very nice Landlady, explained again WE ONLY NEED TWO BEDROOMS FOR THREE MONTHS BETWEEN THREE OF US. She seemed happy with it, I seemed happy with the house. I called Lauren and told her I was happy with the house. Lauren called the landlady to confirm a few things. Now, somewhere in between Lauren initially emailing the woman detailing our needs and me telling the woman the EXACT same needs, face to face, and Lauren calling her the mighty egg whisk of Chaos was applied and the woman told Lauren we were being expected to pay for the whole house; three bedrooms, not the two we had told her we needed and not the two she had agreed to to face to face with me! At the risk of repeating myself, What The Fuck? Didn't she read Lauren's email? Wasn't she listening to me? Was she just smiling and nodding whilst I was talking, but thinking about kittens or knitting or whatever it is that women think about? I told Lauren to tell her to get fucked, we'll find somewhere else. Fucking landlords, they think they own the fucking planet. Well, it's their loss, they could have had money off us for three months, but know they get nothing. Next time I'm in York I've got a good mind to go round and put bricks through their newly installed double glazed windows...

This is what you get if you fuck with me!

Fucking Clowns

Katie began juggling mud balls on site today. Juggling is something that irks me to a fever pitch. I hate it, it is the single most inane activity that humanity has to offer. I hate the people that juggle, with their stupid 'alternative' lifestyles and their stupid Jester hats. They all drive their 2CVs to the latest 'free vegan love-in festival' in their stupid tie-dyed clothes and dungarees. With their stupid overlong beards (men) and unshaven armpits (women). All being terribly individual but looking and acting the same. It's like juggling is a sign of counter-cultural activity and to be alternative you have to learn to throw three balls up in the air without dropping them. Because that's all juggling is. The ability to not drop something. It's like people that ride unicycles, they fall into the same category. I saw some cunt outside a pub one time having to be helped onto his unicycle by his mates. It made me think: What kind of vehicle is that you have to be helped onto in order to use it? What if you were stuck somewhere where there was no one around? You'd have to walk and carry your stupid fucking unicycle with you, wouldn't you? GET A FUCKING BIKE, stop trying to show off to everyone around you that you're 'CRAZY' because you can balance on a wheel. Do you know what I'd do to jugglers and unicyclists if I was in power? I'd treat them like Vlad Dracul treated the insolent Turkish emissaries and NAIL THEIR FUCKING HATS TO THEIR HEADS!!!!

Vlad, he'd have no truck with jugglers...

I didn't have any nails to hand on site today so in spite of this I got the hose and liberally sprayed Katie with it to stop her juggling and make her work. It certainly worked a treat. It also worked on Lawrence when he was trying to flirt with Merel. It was like a cat with a spray bottle. I tell you there are far too many raging hormones on that site.

In other news, go and see Drag Me To Hell, not only has it got the beautiful Alison Lohman in it, but it is a return to form for Sam Raimi. Never mind Spiderman, this was a great horror comedy in the style of Evil Dead I & II and Army of Darkness. In fact it was so much like them I was half expecting the Lamia to start chanting 'Dead By Dawn! Dead By Dawn!!' or Bruce Campbell to apear in a cameo. Mind you, since all his superhero money old Sam seems to have forgotten poor Brucey...

Ash, he'd have no truck with the Lamia...