Wibbly Wednesday Bits


Just spent the past ten minutes walking behind a man in continuous attempt to whistle. Evidently he’d never been taught to just put his lips together and blow. And blow today did, the wind of Heidelberg causing a wonderful moment where an old lady’s umbrella decided it was done with eternal slavery and made a run for it. Instigating the sight that will haunt me to my grave of an elderly German lady hitching up that polkadot dress and running like a motherbitch after her bouncing brolly.

Wednesday’s are an odd one here in Heidelberg, with very little to do, I am in continuous shock as to how far into this week we are, and yet how much more of it there is to go. To combat this, I spend my time of higher education wisely and doodle imaginary people sitting in front of me at the Mensa. After a quick hop in the car with Dave where we walked down the river, going past what he swears in as much genuine honesty an American is capable of, was a monastery of naked, beer-drinking monks, who (I might add) are just the best dinner partners, I returned to the Mensa to then doodle away. Drawing is one of those therapeutic thingamajigs that is capable of obliterating the outside world into a carved mosaic of scratched outlines and flood-filled colour pans. If I was ever capable of drawing consistently, I might take it up as an actual hobby.

Last night was another one of many in which I decided to give up writing for ever and ever and ever, only to then pick up the hobby again this morning. Scripts are fine, like many a thing, I can bang them out in one sunny evening. Prose is a freaking bitch. The patience, self-belief and genuine, consistent mindset required to write a whole book is enough to almost make me respect Twilight. Almost. When I was a stoic little teen who hid away in his room, writing would pour from my fingertips, now the ideas have run from my reach and no words I write down will ever justify the concepts. Still, brick-lay I do, word after word, in the hope that any of it is worthwhile. Though, perhaps discovering I’m writing the one genre I’m actually sick of has been a slight buzzkill. Ferociously tired of dystopian future novels, I miss the shiny, Apple-styled futures with shiny cars and sliding doors, rather than yet another world where our political and social mindsets that have existed all of 2,000 years have somehow driven us into a hellish future within the space of a couple of years.

Hopefully the fact mine is mostly a comedy makes up for that. If it were funny…


Pork ‘n’ Cider? I ‘ardly know ‘er.


When someone tells me that they’re going to give me a good porking, I don’t usually expect to then travel into the next town over. I mean, once you throw in travel costs, schedule changes and all that kafuffle, it just doesn’t really seem worth it. But that indeed was my Monday evening, after a good day of exciting essay writing, Mensa funtimes with Verity and Owen, I receded back into my room, cleaning up the damp that the storm a few backs left in its wake that I had yet to actually bother tidying up. Not to quote Love Bites, but “the car picked me up at around 7 o’clock”, the back was thankfully free of unidentifiable junk, and better yet, dead cats.

After what I can only assume was rhetorically asking me where I wanted to go, Dave suggested heading into Ladenburg for dinner. A town I had yet to venture, due to being ten minutes down the road, Ladenburg did its very best to redefine the meaning of the word Quaint with its succinct little roads, pastel coloured houses and of course, its residential 5,000 churches. It also seems to have an aversion to fully cooking your food, as the incredibly rustic and history-teeming pub house we visited gives your steaks half-cooked, seated merrily upon their own characterised hot stone, for you to then turn over as you please. I guess it saves on food poisoning responsibility.

A delicious and thoroughly enjoyable evening out, we inspected more of the grounds, from the old roman baths, which I have to say were not very clean at all, to the suspiciously guillotine-like wells and a bizarre pagan-ritual clearing in a forest. Not to mention the children’s playground toys which were less toys and more like goddamn scientific equations. Thus, however, is the charm of the German towns. Five steps out of your border and it’s like another world. And this world had pork.

A Foxy Education


It would appear that being a sexual deviant gets you further in life than previously believed, and I didn’t even need to bust out my flowery bra. To celebrate the end of the first performance batch (we have Monday and Tuesday off from performances, a fact I had not been aware of until last night!), we did the sensible thing and drank until the early hours of the morning, serenaded by the silver-tongued lyrics of Jessie J, Snoop Dogg and scary Korean Pop courtesy of Marina.

It was then that a young man would suddenly appear. Tuxedo’d and utterly gazebo’d, the boy we would later come to know as “Fabian” was a frat boy fox of a particularly esteemed and supposedly fascist fraternity house. Unable to get rid of him, Oliver to decided that were he and I to flirt with the boy, we could scare his insular little mind into running away. Many “sweethearts” and arm-strokings later, it would appear drunk Fabian was quite resilient to a pair of creepers. So much so that he invited us two back to his frat house. So, beer in hand, and to the sound of tumultuous applause from our fellow cast members and spectators, Oliver and I departed the theatre to walk with the staggering Fabian to his Frat House.

The two of us constantly making up different things about each other, Oliver and I were able to create quite the little fiction around Fabian as he showed us different fencing techniques, and giant dining halls containing more history than the entire American colony. There is only so many history lessons about a table one can listen to, so Oliver and I used advanced mathematics to bore Fabian to sleep so we could escape. Scuttling out the door, Fabian wished us a good night, though the sun was at the horizon’s peak, and promised to “come see that play thing you’re making”.

An odd adventure in general, it was surprisingly educational, mostly in regard to how glad I am fraternities don’t exist in England. The misogynistic, power hungry institution of bias had reduced the young, and genuinely good-hearted Fabian to a “Fox”, as in; a bitch. He would drink on the orders of his superiors, finish their drinks if told to whilst being made to fetch, grab and bow on command. What’s character-building to some, is in fact a year of shame and under-foot treading in hope of some prosperity later in life should you then meet someone capable of easing you into a job. Still, you get your own maid, so I guess that’s something.


Note to self, in Heidelberg, do not actively go up to the people collecting bottles for pfand. They are like dogs and will then proceed to follow you throughout the rest of the day. And throwing an invisible ball in the opposite direction will only distract them three times.

Throughout the course of this week, I have rewritten an entire hausarbeit, to what standard or quality, I can only imagine. I have seen the yankee celebration of their own independence, an event that defies all logical understanding, most specifically in the most heterosexual of rainbow pinatas, drunken twister and cock block tattoos. And I’ve started treading the Shakespearean boards. Two weeks ago, my Erasmus life was very different. You rarely tend to remember the nights you spend indoors doing nothing, and with that mindset, my own bed may have only been slept in about 3 times this fortnight. It’s about the nights out, and the memories you think you can remember.

Adventures are like one night stands, they’re only good when you don’t know when they’re coming. Change is grand, assuming nothing is left behind and this is the month of change. A final drink goodbye with Matt has solidified a future of Cardiff visits, a loss of evenings under the guise of theatre and an alteration of mindset has proven just how intricately one can be altered through Erasmus’ fidgeting fingers.

I also got called an “unbritish posh twat” by an ex-patriot Brit, who didn’t know what the Rolling Stones were. Fokkin glass ’em.

A bite of affection.


So there we are. We have truly bitten, chewed and spat out our production of Ry Herman’s “Love Bites”, and I have the whip marks to show for it. From its modest beginnings as a small, mostly non-student cast, Love Bites grew to become one of the most talked-about shows of the semester. From the dead cat’s disappointingly tame funeral, to the love lost dominatrix obsessive, and all the way down to a vampire love story that annihilates any notion Twilight may be acceptable as a piece of “literature”. We danced on stage, drank the night away and had a cast celebration in one of the most epic storms Heidelberg has had to offer. No sooner had I joined the cast in the morning to sadly clear out the stage, was it then time to return an hour later, and set up the stage for the upcoming production of As You Like It, coming to an anachronistic theatre forest near you! I can’t say I was quite ready to say byezibye to our darling Vampires and Riding Crops, but the Bard needs his time.

It’s been one helluva week. I guess there’s something in being chained up in your boxers and taking 4am walks in the castle gardens to demonstrate the delightful liberality of the term “art”, and more importantly, to prove that any distance between you and what you care for is purely what you make of it. Knowing one’s failings is in itself a success and to continue with them in your stead will, I guess, just prepare you for whatever else this world has behind its back, ready to throw in your face, with or without the exact velocity of a cream pie.

It’s also been a rather wet week. And not necessarily of the juicy nether-regions inclination either. As mentioned before, there was a ginormous storm, with your characteristic rain, wind and lightning (oh my!) and I, may, possibly, have left my window open, as is characteristic of stuffy accommodation in the heat of summer. And I may, possibly, potentially, might have left my laptop lying under the window. Which, having not been home for three days straight, I returned to on Monday morning to pick up and see a jet of water pour out from the sides, in which pouring stream were the remnants of 2 years of writing, photos, essays, notes and of course, anything that that I, due to a lack of internet access these past few months, had failed to back up. Lists are being made and essays are being rewritten, as are plans to sell what I can in the hopes of covering this slight weather induced and absent-minded incident from ending my year in Heidelberg with academic and financial bankruptcy. I heard the Medical School wanted volunteers.

Back to the Empirical Logic, part II


So the first performance went well. I’m doing my best to not be affected by the fact that when I appeared in my boxers, the audience burst into laughter. Hopefully that means I was fulfilling the fleshy duties of my role.

With some early practise for my new role at Surrey as Marketing and Outreach Officer, marketing of the production is going well, with 3x the amount of interest in the past couple of days alone. This comes in perfectly for the sudden requirement to begin on a brand new set of hausarbeiten, ripe and ready for the new holiday. Now would be a good time to have some actual idea what the fuck to write about. Received a letter from Surrey this week, asking us to detail our final deadlines and end of placements as we’re now reaching the end. A feeling beyond the words of even my pretentious vocabulary. September, Heidelberg felt like an indefinite lifetime, this was my home for a year. Now, Heidelberg feels temporary, short term, with the end of it rushing up to meet me. Neither of which feelings did I have a bloody clue how to handle.

Anyhow, proving once again that people have a habit of literally accepting anything they’re told and are even capable of forming an opinion based on no evidence whatsoever, Facebook today was blasted with a series of photos detailing how it was the day of the future that Marty McFly arrived at, in Back to the Future 2, a world filled with hover boards, flying cars, alternate fuel and motion controlled video games. The photos showed self-congratulatory chastising of the ignorant futuristic predictions, idly sidestepping their own incorrect information with beautifully elegant irony. Forgetting this folly, and moving past a slight loss in humanity that even on facebook with all the net at your disposal, people are still so willing to jump on an unsupported bandwagon, given the fact that Back to the Future predicted video phone calls over inter-connected computer systems, people uploading all their profiles with likes and dislikes onto this system for ease of access, money being transferred from account to account at the push of a button, recycled produce as energy fuel, holographic walls and video screens capable of containing many windows at once all displaying video systems, not to mention ID chips and retina recognition, I’m half expecting hover boards to be on the market soon. Especially given hover flight has been achieved just without ease of motion. I wonder if had these predictions not been made under Zemeckis, would some of them have happened in real life? Much like how Spiderman invented the concept of the GPS tracking device, go Spidey! We still love you, even if the Avenges don’t.

Mind you, criticising those not looking for empirical evidence does leave a funny taste in my mouth, given I’m supposedly a Christian.

Love Nibbles Nipples


So here I am, sat on the sofa backstage, first night is ready, audience will be filing in soon, tomatoes at the ready, their salivating mouths awaiting our clumsy performances and forgotten lines. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was sat in the anglistik common room just chillin’ like a muthaluvva, when I watched an audition take place in front of me. So why not just jump in and audition, for the lols?

Since then, I’ve lived those three months back in England, completely forgetting about the script I’d been emailed until I returned for a fantastic semester at Heidelberg, where I found that I was going to be on stage within 2 months, wearing my boxers and feeling the impatient bite of a temperamental whip. What better way to ease one’s sexual frustration?

Curtain up is soon and I am already in costume, just hidden under the rest of my actual clothes. One of the few actual times for me that getting dressed entails the complete opposite. Hopefully the audience will appreciate the pinkness of my nipples.

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