Frozen frosticles

30 secs on Paint. All you ever need.

Evidently another feature of Heidelberg’s ever changing weather system is its habit of creating spontaneous snow, without a cloud in the sky. The stuff literally sprouted out of the ground itself. Oh, and it’s like -11oC. As Sarah’s status fairly well commented, this is but magic snow. The best there is. Arrives on time, doesn’t stick around. What more could you want from a date? It is also thanks to Sarah that I am reminded of a dark, dark secret, one I thought had been laid to rest… I wish to live in a Musical. If only we could all sing our problems away, arguments would be reduced to well-choreographed dances and we’d all have unlimited energy. I was once was lost but now am found, in the music upbeats of Schwartz, Sondheim, Lloyd-Webber and countless other genii. So thank you Sarah for a lovely night in a re-education.

Grabbing Sunday drinks with the Northern, never Southern, Carolinian Zack saw a venture into a bar called Orange, which proved to have some… fruitful decorative choices. And by this I mean vaginas. Lots and lots of vaginas. Shaved ones, bushy ones, stylised, tattoo and bamboozled. I now understand why a baby’s first action in life is to cry.

Further with the passing days and we see more goodbyes, Saturday was a drunken au revoir to the shaded spectacles of Nico, who with his gravity-defying hair, has embarked back to the land of frog legs and snail sandwiches. Along with him has left the fluttery Birdy, the LANDAN Italian Alessandra, and many more people who will be missed and toasted to in all the best alcoholic, multicultural fashions. If hugs could be posted. One day until I get the key to my new residency, old Neuenheimer Feld. Just in time to then head back to England shortly after.

A policeman’s donut is not a toy.

One thing I have to say about Heidelberg Police, they might not be fast, they might not be great at actually dealing with situations. But damn, are they thorough, and I’m talking rubber glove, bend over and think of mama thorough. On Tuesday after leaving the Brass Monkey somewhere around the early hours of the morning, Andrej, Matt and I decided to drive home, Andrej in all his glory being the driver. We had been on the road less than thirty seconds when, shocking though it may seem, we were being pursued by a Police car. Upon stopping, they circled the car, shining torches through the windows and staring each one of us with vigorous intent. Checking the underside, back and even top of the car, they asked Andrej to step out, subjecting him to a breathalizer, which recorded, quite rightly, 0.00%. The driving had not been frisky, hell we hadn’t even been given the chance. Only possible reason was that Andrej’s vehicle had a foreign license plate. This is evidently reason enough to pull the car over and inspect it top to bottom, surprised they didn’t give the exhaust pipe an enema.

In other news, writing is back up, currently working on a script for back home. Haven’t made anywhere near the progress I should have on it by now, but I think a couple of energy-drink-fueled nights of insomnia and it should be wrapped up pretty dandily soon enough. This is one of the few pieces of writing where I actually know exactly where the plot has to go, it’s also one of the few actual PLOT focused scripts I’ve written, rather than just “Here’s some characters, here’s a setting, let’s see where this goes”. Due to the limited time, I’ve called on friends to help with the editing and final process, which calls to light one of the main aspects of writing that I think holds many people back, especially me; the fear that it won’t be perfect first time. We hear all about 1st, 2nd, 25th drafts of a piece of text, and sort of shrug it off, but a wonderful things that writing does provide, is the opportunity to edit. Get the words onto page, even if the scenes don’t work, even if they don’t have the jokes and ideas you had originally hoped for, at least the scene exists for them to be added to. Right now, this piece is such a ridiculously serious, convoluted plot that I’m finding myself unable to provide the comedy where I would like to, and thus am choosing not to write at all and just wait for the time when I am able to do it all. Whereas the kick-up-the-arse mentality should be, just fucking write it. Get the plot down, and go back and add to it. Writing and brick-laying share a similar process, keep putting one word after another and you’ll have your story. Don’t like it, change it. Simple.

A chocolatey wannabe biscuit doodah.

The man, the myth, the Austrian.

For those of you who do not study English Literature at the University of Surrey it is time for you to become educated about one very special man, a man who has touched us all… figuratively, and who with banana analogies, powerpoint battles and a gentile “bye bye!” has saved us from the mediocrity of student life. On Friday, right before heading to the so-called, but immensely enjoyable, “art” gallery in yesterday’s post, us Surreyers were blessed with some heiß shokolade and kuchen under the kind favours of one, Peter Barta. He who started lecturing at Surrey in 1994, has seen the student body evolve from the contentious it’s-cool-not-to-wash mid90s, to the fat 2000s students who spent more time shopping than studying, down to the apparently best behaved, best smelling and most adaptive generation to date; us. Now there’s a bubble to put in your hat and float with.

After years of telling us to watch Monty Python to gain a better insight into James Joyce, he shall be departing from the University along with his linguistically caressing nature, in whose stead I’m sure we’ll agree that understanding Hamlet is not like eating a Banana, and how one minute you are walking along, and then BINGO! You’ve killed your father and it’s off to marry Mum is the perfect description of Oedipus Rex. But we shall always remember that, no matter what hat he wears, he is still Beter Parta.

“Thank you so much for joining us! You see, my being polite was funny because he was late.” You never were, Peter. You never were.

In other news, evidently procrastination can do wonders, as for that presentation I was avoiding last week, we settled in with a very comfortable 1.0 grade! Making it my third in a row! Typical that I would be averaging 100% on an academic course that has nothing do with my actual degree.

Pimple Porn.

Saucy.

When the subjectivity of art can go so far as to include a video of a man screaming so as to show the truth behind Reality TV, and vulgar porn films set to haunting music of a cat being strangled underwater as transmitting “happiness and simplicity”, you know it’s time to throw yourself off a bridge. It begins to make sense as to why so many people buy into Reality TV and game shows when this is the artistic counterattack. Watching a man balance eggs in his hands is not art, it’s a statement and one that’s neither profound nor stimulating. Whatever the statement is πŸ˜› It’s embarrassing that people actually put money into and feed the ego of such self-proclaimed artists, and then these same people criticise those who watch Big Brother for the entertainment factor.

They’re not wrong, X Factor and the like is a sodomy of televisional standards…

Wait, what’s my argument again?

Above is a wannabe creative’s conundrum. Just who do we criticise? As I before, it’s so common to fear the criticism of others that one leaps into critical mode first. This is just an artistic example, as someone asked me if I thought fashion was the only thing people contradictorily judged. Yay, self indulgence.

A stethoscope of lies!

Prescribe this man a drink, stat!

It would appear that when dealing with a hysterical drunk German girl, the best thing to do would not be to tell her, “It’s alright, I’m a doctor”. Some say this would be common knowledge, but my argument that a plastic bottle cocktail of lemonade, Jagermeister, vodka and malibu, with cubes of sugar dipped in for good measure, is anything but common, so anything that follows the consumption of this beverage should follow as thus. Whilst out on the little-remembered, but thoroughly enjoyed Saturday night at Halle 02, my atoms collided with a drunken German lass insisting that she’d been attacked. My sarcastic response as to a fictional medical profession was met with delight and glee, so I had to hurriedly call over a bouncer to deal with the situation. Staying with her a little longer, she calmed down and then asked if I had a girlfriend. Unfortunately she took my response as to my sexuality as a sarcastic insult.

Meaning I am more believable as a young Doctor than a gay man.

With the passing moons, the season of goodbyes has arrived. Friday and Saturday saw the departure of two extremely good friends, Danielle and Sara. In order to attend their semesters in America, they had to leave by this past weekend. It’s been an absolute pleasure getting to know so many people, which is why such a goodbye leaves an interesting taste in the mouth. To combat this, we all made quiche and pies together! Staying up until the early hours of the morning and conversing in a blend of English, German, French and British “slang”, it was a fantastic night in after a week of Capture the Flagging, late night drinking and hyperactive hugging. The short time each person has in Heidelberg enables you to enjoy the time shared all the more, and so with goofy grins and sloppy kisses, we face the next month of departures in the best way we can, together and insane.

A time waster’s work is never done.

What you are currently reading right now, assuming you are reading this, is the act of procrastination in all its glory. See, I have a presentation to give in… under an hour. The powerpoint is done, my notes are… sort of there, and really when you reach this point, who can be fucked? Somewhere there’s that niggling sensation that I should be poring over my notes, that it’s my duty to my grades and the class to actually commit to this, but like all procrastinators, I’ve reached that point where I think… That’s good enough. For an English Literature student, I do get slightly worried at times about just how little I actually read. I’ve stated before that I find both writing and reading to be intensely lonely activities, and with the internet feeding the ADD bug of the human mentality, I think the only way to get me to read would be to make my homework: Going on Facebook.

Other activities however are going well, sword choreography is now underway, with me reducing (and potentially bastardising) the standard teaching format of the combat positions into my own little system. Trying to blend broadsword weight with the fluidity of fencing is something I should never be trying to achieve, given I’ve never actually been taught who to… y’know, teach sword fighting. However, Jonas the Sherlock Holmes of today in all his wonderful illustriousness has picked it up fantastically and doing a good job of incorporating the moves into his character’s persona, and Martin, speedy and very Martin-like has already added some funky flare to his form. I’m back on with the accommodation application, but more on that tomorrow, should everything go well! With hands held under the table and perhaps a few too many beverages underway, it’s been a fantastic week, despite the fucking miserable weather’s efforts.

Unhatched eggs

Answers that old question.

I hate that girls can wear boots. I love boots. Boots are amazing. Nice top, good jeans and then half-shin boots are fucking cool. Once a guy tries to wear a pair of high-legged beauties it’s all “someone wants to be a cowboy!” and whilst I would always rather ride a cowboy than a horse, this continues to be an issue. In one of the few advantages allowed, fashion remains to be a relative fix for the ladies, whereas for men, once you move out of the T-shirt and Jeans realm of clothing, you’re making a statement. Europe generally is more happy for jumpers over shirts, scarves under tops, and… eugh, polo shirts, but that’s still sticking to the same two-part piece of clothing, even a shirt over a tshirt is now considered trying to be indie. By other guys. The stereotype of woman being fashionably judgemental should’ve died in the water a long time ago but still it exists, despite that boys tend to be even more vicious, often because they refrain from exploring fashion for fear of the same ridicule they then give to those who do.

I have a habit of trying to keep good news on the down low, otherwise I find excitement breeds too quickly and should plans not go as, well, planned… then the disappointment is just a further irritation. Over the past week I’ve been mentioning to people that *hopefully* I was going to be able to move out of SRH Campus and into my friend’s room in the Altstadt, a larger room, with a kitchen in actual near proximity and deep in the heart of the town. This naturally, through chinese whispers, bred into a fact that I would be moving into this room, which as it turns out this morning, is very much not the case. Communication errors, bureaucratic fuck ups and ridiculous office hours has left me back at square one in regards to looking for new accommodation. Much like with the publication a couple of posts ago, I normally try not to mention it until it transcends from potential to definite. It seems the ones I mention preemptively are the ones that mess up and become what they aren’t. Not to matter, back to the application for new accommodation, trying to get round the 2 week set back this communication error created and still trying. If it doesn’t work and I remain in SRH, there’s still plenty of things to be happy about, so bleh πŸ˜€

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