Leave for Civilisation only to go back in time - Fun Thing # 92

A Night of 50s Music....

Just call me Marty. It might not be everyone's idea of a great time; you hit the big smoke, have a few drinks and then see a rather odd man, dressed up as someone about 30 years younger and long dead, singing songs... in obscene leather trousers. Thrusting. I, er, didn't enjoy that part I hasten to add.

That's right I had a night of watching a bunch of singers pretending to be long dead popstars: it was called 'In Dreams'. At times it came closer to some of my nightmares.

The Billy Fury impressionist and the rictus of terror that was my face aside, a great time was to be had when I actually focused on the music; there were songs there that should never have been forgotten, or rather relegated to a night of dodgy entertainment; like Conway Twitty's (I know, I know, stupid name) 'It's Only Make Believe'. Generally despite all the sinister references to sixteen year olds, or bizarre lyrics that can only be indicative of a generation abuzz with pent up frustration there are some just simply fantastic songs. Obviously I'm being extremely patronising there as the era was a font of musical diversity and change. Admist all the costumes, bad Dusty Springfield wigs and hand clapping, some of that spirit crossed over; old ladies found the energy to dance in the aisles, whilst I sat complaining of bad knees and feeling asphyxiated by the fug of their floral perfumes. Well, a couple of old ladies were twisting the night away, but the majority of the female audience were accompanied by old men husbands who flatly refused to get up and make a spectacle of themselves, thank you very much! One boogie orientated grandmother danced alone. Like that Sting song, well excepting the state sanctioned excecutions....

I've just realised from my use of the phrase "boogie orientated" that it is entirely possible I am still drunk. The only thing to add is that tomorrow I'm visiting a cheese festival.

Die of Mortification - Fun Thing # 34

It's a Saturday night, you've gone out for a few quiet whiskies... which have become slightly more raucous cocktails and even, (I shudder as I write this) a verbose cherry flavoured alcopop. You've met a man who has stolen a nickname from vintage Grange Hill, put up with a matchmaking barman, and uttered in , ahem, the meekest of tones, a desperate plea much akin to Abba's 'gimme, gimme, gimme' but slightly more explicit, which results in two very old men sitting in your kitchen drinking your single malt whisky. Bottomless old men with a huge capacity for quaffing. Be careful what you wish for.

Once you've gotten rid of them (when the bottles have been sucked dry) all that's left to do is register that it's 4am, you're wide awake, pretty waxed, and (the killer and crucial 'and') it is about time you sent a text. A drunken text.

The next day you die, die, die, die as you remember (quick delete it from your sent messages, so you never have to read the terrible words ever again)... exactly what you said. And to whom. Die. Turn your phone off. Die. Die. Die - the combined weight of chagrin, mortification and horror crushes your fragile soul.

It's a good job I self deprecate so well - but it is a result of all the practise. My sageous flatmate wisely said that no one is perfect all the time, but I would settle for averaging 10% - rather than the 3% I'm currently on.

I'd just like to add.... sometimes a drunken text gets you everywhere. Ahhhhhhh.

What's On....

After expending a fit of energy yesterday, researching and writing notes until my poor hand couldn't take any more, I'm back to my usual torpor. Is it wrong to be put off going up to the library because their computer desktops display little gadgets telling you the weather outside? Maybe I shouldn't be irritated by this, but isn't that part of the point of windows? Real windows, not the Microsoft kind. The only point of that is to crash and generally annoy people.

I worry for the future of the human race sometimes; stupid, pointless desktop gadgets will only promote natural selection to remove necks. Our future generations will be doomed to become reverse giraffes.

In other news the students are trickling back in, with their odd hair, strange clothes and capacity to mill around 4 to a pavement; the Bacchanalia of the Fresher's weekend isn't far off either. This means the only place I'll be safe is the library; I mean what kind of strange 0nes will be hanging about there - apart from the weather-phobic no necked weirdos obviously.

Rain, rain, go away.... Fun Thing #67 - Listen to songs about rain whilst staring out of the window like a lost puppy.

Aberystwyth's rain is .... similar.

The downpour continues and I am trapped indoors, having foolishly spent all my money on luxuries like wine, decongestant, pesto and fair trade rice cakes rather than a sensible pair of good winter shoes... and my duffle coat (now an amazing seven years old, still far too big) has even more holes.

• The current playlist: Raindrops keep falling on my head (Manic Street Preachers cover) Rainslicker (Josh Ritter) Why Does it Always Rain on Me? (Travis) Summertime Blues (The Who) I Can't Stand the Rain (Ann Peebles) Stormy Weather (Ella Fitzgerald)

And newly discovered (well pinched from another blog) Stormy Monday Blues (Bobby Blue Bland). Don't say I never give you anything.

...but not as suggested by some the greatest hits of Wet, Wet, Wet.