It's the 20th of October - you know what that means!

Happy International Day of the Air Traffic Controller!

I watched United '83 to celebrate. Gaddafi died. Silly dictators, always dying.


So today was pretty awesome, as it pretty much entailed me winning at life completely by accident. Don't worry, I will actually tell you. Why would I be here otherwise?

In college, there's this thing called a contract, and it's a very bad thing which you get if you suck at handing in work or you're an asshole or whatever reason, and it basically means that you have to be improved or you'll be kicked off your course or out of college.

Note: I suck at doing homework. Literally, I never ever did it in school.
On the bright side, it left more time for alcoholism.


So that was a bad habit, as was revealed by my tutor yesterday afternoon when she said that apparently I hadn't been handing in work for my Media course and that I might have to be put on contract.

Naturally, I s**t bricks and spent my entire first period today catching up, and then I saw my homework for today's lesson - Bring in a magazine. I kind of crapped myself for a second, until I realised that I'm an amazing individual and make a habit of carrying an art-house magazine about meat on my person at all times.

So I get into my lesson, and my teacher goes batsh*t crazy, and everyone who hasn't brought in a magazine to analyse has to sit in silence in another room, write an apology, get shouted at by every teacher on the media team, and do all their work. Meanwhile I get to sit in class with 4 gurlz and get one-on-one tutoring on the coursework brief that I'm choosing.

Minor fist pump.


Then my teacher see's that I've bought in an art-house magazine about meat, and she goes on a tirade about how amazing she thinks it is and how much of a good choice it was, completely oblivious to the fact that I had it on me by pure luck. She then takes it and scans it so they can use my choice as a good example.

Slightly more eccentric fist pump.


Then I had a free so I met some new people (As you do in such an amazing college as mine) who had awesome hair and we went and got donuts and Pringles and sat on a roundabout and had a picnic.

Like a boss.


Then I had film, and realised shortly before my lesson that I foolishly had forgotten to bring in the DVD that I'm doing for my coursework (American Psycho, highly recommend it). So I go into my lesson and go up to my teacher (Who bears a similarity to Peter Capaldi in both looks and voice, so it's quite scary when he gets annoyed) and look as solemn as possible and explain how I've forgotten my DVD and surprisingly, he looks up with a smile and says:
'That's okay, your 3-page plan was so in depth that you can probably write your essay without the DVD!'

Major fist pump.


And I felt really good, so I wrote 500 more words than I was supposed to, listened to some Twin Atlantic and then skipped home where I had haddock.

Omnomnomnomnom. Yellow fish.


So yeah, cool story bro. In other news, my amazing new project is almost ready to be announced, so buy some nappies or something just in case you wet the bed in excitement.

I know I will.

Hypochondria on the Brain?

"So little food for thought my f**king brain feels anorexic,

 So many typo's when I write, oh I'll claim I'm dyslexic"

Introdiction - Scroobius Pip 

When the film 'Fight Club' was adapted from the book and released in the cinema, it's a little known fact that the recipe for a homemade bomb (Which in the book is an operable manual for the activity) was modified for the film version, scrapped and made up so that it was a realistic sounding facade. Why? Because due to a few laws that may or may not exist, combined with the moral reasoning of the director, they somehow didn't want to give millions of people the know-how to blow up a small building.

Good move David Fincher, you saved the day.

Now all you people, with your clever little minds and vast libraries of knowledge, might make the assumption here that I'm going to start waxing lyrical on the promotion of guerrilla warfare. Now despite the fact that I'm a rebellious yet lovable teenager and the fact that certain Cornish towns need a communist regime, I'm going to take this rant in a different direction.

You see, David Fincher, in directing Fight Club, might have stopped a lot of banking corporations from being blown up, but there was another bit of information that he may or may not have intended to let slip.

Due to some of the themes of Fight Club, the release of the film triggered an international awareness, not just of the everyday urges to beat the living s**t out of someone, but of schizophrenia, insomnia, depression, and other mental illnesses. A lot of people see this as a good thing, and it probably is, but there is one little thing that annoys the crap out of me.

Knowing the symptoms, or what to expect of a mental illness, is a pretty useful thing - after all, knowing what to expect of cancer kind of stops us from dropping like flies and getting very confused. However, when you give someone the recipe for a bomb - they get this strange temptation to blow something up, and it's the very same with the symptoms of an illness, mental disorders being the very same.

It's a bit like dyslexia - everyone has a basic understanding that it entails you being bad at spelling, that sort of thing. So it makes complete sense, doesn't it? I mean, you find spelling a bit hard, and no, you've never seen a doctor about it, because it's so obvious! You definitely have dyslexia!

Oh, and your mood swings? Yeah, turns out they have a word for that too! It's called bi-polar disorder! And yeah, you don't have manic episodes and start smashing things, so you must just have like, a smaller version!

See? We're all completely mental! We're all so diverse and different!

Oh, oh wait, I was being sarcastic again wasn't I.... damn schizophrenia!


There might be a reason for why I get annoyed about this, it might be the prescribed medicines I had for my 'brain problems' as a kid, it might be the voluntary work I did in a mental hospital, it might be the little hipster inside of me screaming for mental illness to be less mainstream than it is now.

People keep saying 'Yeah, you say that, but before they discovered dyslexia they thought people were just stupid' - and they're just missing the point. It's not that we're unaware about these things - I mean, it's not like you've ever read a medical journal and you're an expert on ADD. It's simply that when we're given the ingredients to do something, we want to do it. Even if that means putting yourself through the 'pain' and 'suffering' of mental illness.

I'm not pointing any fingers in this post, and I'm not asking any questions - in the words of the afore-quoted Scroobius Pip, I talk about the things that a lot of people won't mention. All I ask is that you keep your fingers pointed at the keyboard, and for you to ask the questions.

Now take a bloody paracetamol and go back to bed.


-Lewis... it is Lewis, right?

A Few Facts and Lies

So I haven't blogged for a month. Shoot yourself or something, I've got excuses. Not only am I working on an amazing charity project that will more than make up for everything I haven't written on the blog, but I just started college last week (Studying Double English, Media, Film, and Sociology, if you must know) and have suddenly become involved in a million and one projects that have the potential to make me into an amazing journalist/author/late-night game show host, so it all compensates really.

Alas, I need to actually gain praise/trolls in the meantime, so I'm back here again - and I've been thinking.

I was recently talking (I say talking, I was chatting to them on Facebook, but its pretty much the same thing for me) and we somehow started talking about how we are able to express ourselves via the medium of language. I say that like it was a really intellectual conversation, but it was far from it - and that's kind of the point.

If any of you have actually had the misfortune to listen to me speak in person, you'll know that in general unrehearsed conversation, I am a bumblingly incomprehensible monotone mumble of a person, who spends more time thinking about what I'm trying to say and intermitting actual words with 'Um' and 'Ah' and the occasional swear word. Yet somehow, when I write I am able to form pretty well structured sentences and speak well - most of the time that is, I've actually used two words in this last paragraph that I made up, little game for you.

The point of this conversation was, that although we were both quite boring people to listen to, we could at least sound somewhat clever when we wrote.

This prompted another thought - a lot of the people who read this blog have never actually met me, due to them being in another country or just stumbling upon it like a deer into a bear trap. So how on earth, are people able to judge me? What do people actually know about me? Do they think I'm some sort of lyric-waxing demi-god? Because if they do, they're going to be majorly disappointed if they ever meet me.

So I thought I'd play a little game. It's a fairly simple concept - I'm going to describe my friends and family and me in general. But of course, not that simple, because this is me, and I'm still trying to maintain my facade of pseudo-intellectualism. Some of this is going to be false, and some of this is going to be fiction. Bear in mind that I live a rather strange life, and a lot of the people I associate myself with are horribly strange people. You can make guesses at which is which, but to be honest, it's more fun if you just believe all of it.

Adverse to my blogger picture, I actually have neck length brown locks of gorgeous brown hair - the picture I use was actually taken at a concert where I dressed up as a hipster-clown-retro bassist, with shutter shades, war paint, a red curly wig, a bow tie, and a woolly tank top that my Nan knitted me. In terms of body and fitness, I'm a kind of genetic mixup of Adonis DNA and that of a male Hollister model.

I live with my parents, whom I love so very very much.

My Mum, a strong-minded woman who takes nearly enough tramadol every day to kill a newborn child, has worked in the same shop for well over a decade now. She once washed out my mouth with soap because I swore (I maintain that it was my friend, but Mother is always right) and once threw a toy train at my brothers head when he was a baby- not a woman to be f**ked with, and I love her for it.

My Dad, an Ex-Military machine of a man currently works as an area manager for the biggest oil company in the world, where he excels in breaking pretty much every record for things that you can be good at when running a petrol station. Before he was awesome at that however, he was busy being awesome in the army, where he achieved the highest rank possible by cooking. His crowning achievement in my eyes is making a bacon sandwich whilst firing a rocket launcher at a tank. He once won a Freddy Mercury Look-A-Like competition, but now his tache makes him look a bit more like Lord Kitchener, which is a worrying parental image. YOU!

My brother, who I have chronicled previously in this post, is a trucker, a job that despite it not sounding that amazing (Bear in mind that this is England, not Iceland or Route 66 area) is something that he just decided he wanted to do one day and then did it, and fair f**king play he's good at it.

I have two people who I would consider my best friends, not that I call them that because it's about as gay as referring to them as by BFF's. I am of course referring to Brownbear (Who we call so because he's brown, and because we're racist scum) and Rick Nidgway, named so because his 'real name' is so much more boring (Points to anyone who can work out what it is).

A lot of friends go to the cinema and have sleepovers and go mountaineering, but we've found that we prefer to get drunk, abuse our bodies and generally be bad examples of human beings, we spend too much time being awesome apart from that. The only thing we do that is remotely healthy is longboarding, but I think that's frowned upon slightly by the owners of the victims cats.

I once (On my birthday) whipped my friends into paying for and carrying a mini-fridge to my house, where we installed it in my room and have since used it for ungodly purposes. For Brownbear's birthday I bought him a lighter with his name on it, and me and Brownbear have previously slept for three weeks in an abandoned bathroom in the middle of no-where in Swaziland, because we're hardcore and such.

I could go on about my life, but this has gone far enough, and I fancy a drink have homework to do.

Much love,
- Lewis

Under Orders to Blog

Yet again, I have left my blog unattended, like the ever-present confused child in the airport that you really would go over and ask if it's alright but you:

a) Don't want to risk looking like a paedophile.
b) Don't want to look like an idiot when their parent is only a few feet away and they just look that lost all the time.
c) 'Pfft, security'll find them soon enough...'

However, there was a kind of semi-decent reasoning to this. If you read this blog often, or perchance have just read the previous post, or in the unlikely event that you're omniscient, you'll know that I recently embarked on a trip to Holland, where I bought stayed in a hotel, got confused and got drunk and then came home again.

This post was entitled: World Destruction Tour - Part One. It was called that because the general plan was that not long after that we would embark on a week long trip to Portugal upon the same basis. Unfortunately, due to various technical difficulties and life being a bitch, it seems that by the time this trip actually happens, I will finally be condemned to college life and unable to make it.

But the thing is, I, like many other nerds before me, am a continuity freak.

When I buy a film, I buy the fricking boxset. When I read a book, I read the prequel, sequel, the interquel, and the parallel. And don't get me started on anime continuation.

So as you can imagine, when I realised I had a part one, and nothing to continue it with, I was a wreck.

I sat indoors all day, reading endless piles of books and staring at my laptop, willing my book to get written, maybe Facebook to do something interesting besides tell me how 'MESSY' some d**ks night out was. I would drink a two litre bottle of cherryade and throw up on the carpet, blaming it on the cat. I don't even have a cat.


So what are you reading? What am I writing? Better yet, why am I writing?

Because I was sat on Facebook, gnawing my own face off from the relentless amounts of dark self-shots with emo song lyrics from 'depressed' 13-year old's when I received this message, from the one with that blog about lemons or whatever.

So, what with her being relentlessly amazing and beautiful and talented and me being skillfully hypnotised, I decided to blog.

But what was I to blog? I had done nothing, achieved nothing save getting an imaginary cat in trouble! I'd have to do something revolutionary, something unheard of, something new.

So, I decided to make a list.

I know, I'm spoiling you.

See the thing is, if you're reading this, you've probably got nothing else to do. Either that or you rushed home and even hit a pensioner on the way when you heard I had posted again - but only cheese-boy does that. Seriously, he checks my blog at work when his boss isn't looking.

So due to you having nothing else to do I thought I'd give you a leg-up out of boredom, and give you a list of three awesome blogs to read when you're not peeling potatoes.

Three Awesome Blogs to read when you're not Peeling Potatoes

1. Lemons Don't Make Lemonade

Written by a certain Chinese ball of awesome, LDML is a contemporary zeitgeist for the sexually frustrated homeschooler. In short, desperate loner writing about penis. It's funny.

2. The Cheesecake Paradox

The Cheesecake Paradox consists of the proverbial ramblings of Sri-Lankan born Australian Ash Silva, a school computer technician and alleged mason-fetishist from Brisbane. A must read if you enjoy my writings.

3. ________

That's right, it has no name. Its no lie that I love English teachers, and the short punchy posts of pure wit, awesome poetry and unadulterated nameless-ness make 'The Secret Life of an English Teacher' one of my favourite blogs out there.

So what are you still doing here? Go! Read! Cure your boredom!

Pay me later guys.


- Lewis