A l'étrange?

Well, tomorrow, folks, I commence my year abroad. I'm getting pretty sick of saying where I'm going now and what I'm doing, and that it's a compulsary part of my course, but, just for you (in case you didn't know), I'm going to Rennes, in Brittany (Bretagne) tomorrow, until Christmas, and then in February, I'm going to Girona, in Catalonia (Catalunya) until July. I'm going to study in those places too. I managed to get into their versions of student accomodation too, but my hopes are low for Rennes.

Well, I'm already here. I forgot to finish this blog before I went. Here is the link : http://heeley-en-france.blogspot.com/

I really, really wish I could be somewhere else.

Well, trabajo called, and had me working at V Fest. The one that Oasis didn't pull out of. "Hurrah", I hear you cry. Oh no. This is not "hurrah"-worthy. On a burger van, next to the main stage (you may "hurrah" here) which got hammered. Ridiculous hours, for (adult) minimum wage, with staff on drugs. I just despise it. I despise everything about working there. I despise the bosses mainly. Well, just one of them. Greasy Ian. He's just a tosser. I also discovered that seeing Oasis at V the other week, makes me one of the few people present (in relation to the rest of the world) to have seen their last performance. Yay me.

This weekend also involved working at Leeds Fest. A comletely different experience to V. Totally not my cup of tea. V has something for everyone, whilst Leeds is rock. I'm not a huge fan of rock, but I can stand it. I cannot stand noise. The Horrors are a prime example of bands that just make noise. Actually dreadful. That said, I had slightly more fun working at Leeds, just because once we'd finished our shift, we wandered round, judging drunks and going on the Waltzers. I enjoyed it.

In other news, I go on my year abroad on THURSDAY! Actual 3 days away. THREE! From then, I will be transferring to my "Martin en France" blogg. Don't say I don't give you notice, people.

Mr Potter. Our new *celebrity*.

Well, these past few days have been full of many stars for me. No no, not the celestial type (that means stars in the sky, Ruth). I mean, of course, the famous type. I'm gonna be honest, it's not changed me one iota. I'm also gonna be honest about iotas. I don't know what they are, but I assume them to be a very small unit of measurement of some sort.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. On Friday, word had reached us that Stavros Flatley (one of the finalists from Britain's Got Talent) were to perform at Xscape. Naturally we were excited, cos they're fricking awesome. Well, they were. We got there relatively late, compared to all the mothers who lack jobs. We thought we'd got a reasonably reasonable place in which to see them. This was before chavs and tall people pushed in front of us. Then Davie got told off for pushing in front of some vertically challenged children and their vertically challenged mothers. He hadn't, they just couldn't see and blamed the nearest tall person. Well, one hour late, proceedings commenced with some man from Radio Aire (96.3) asking us if we were ready for Stavros Flatley. We were. Which is exactly why he sent on some bint to sing. He did this another two times before they came on. Turns out our position was poor at best. We couldn't see anything except their heads barely. They did the same routine they did on the telly, and then some bint from Calendar (ITV's local news. Ugh.) went to interview them and got them to show her their signature move. Then we left. In disgust.

Celebrity number 2. Yesterday, I had work. And, as Wakefield were playing some obscure southern team (Celtic Crusaders, I believe. Lost 21 games out of 24.) they had gotten Diversity (winners of BGT) to come and perform, and meet the kiddies. Now, I have never been so glad to be working. Maybe. I wasn't especially over excited. Like I pointed out to Jacqui, they'll have disappeared into obscurity by this time next year. Hopefully. Anyway, Mavis jumped straight in and went round them all getting their autographs. We can beat this. Well, Jacqui can. They decided they wanted some of our burgers. They are brave like that. And Jacqui, useless agency person and myself served them. Jacqui got autographs for herself, and I just got bored. I honestly didn't care. It felt weird not caring. But, as far as I'm concerned, they're not proper celebrities. If you went to see a panto, you wouldn't wait at the exit to get the autographs of the chorus, would you?

"No matter where I are, they say 'Hey, sexy'"

Oh, where to begin.

Recent points of irritation:

#1. The Sugababes.
#2. Get Sexy. [See above]
#3. Poor grammar. [See #2/title]
#4. Traffic lights.
#5. Jamie Oliver. [Constant]
#6. Railway crossings.
#7. Stavros Flatley
#8. Work.
#9. Next door.
#10. Next door's builders.
#11. The elderly.
#12. Chavs.
#13. Big Brother. [merely for existing]
#14. Primark.
#15. Parking.
#16. The Punto.
#17. The phone.

I feel I should stop now.

"Y a une capote de protection quand même! lol"

Here are a few things that are currently concerning/troubling me:

#1. The prospect of living in a foreign country, on my own, until Christmas.

#2. The prospect of being regarded as a foreigner in said foreign country.

#3. Swine flu.

#4. SARS. I just don't think we gave it enough attention!

#5. The prospect of a swine flu vaccination become globally available when I'm in France, and me not being able to have it, because I am not French.

#6. David Cameron.

#7. David Cameron winning the next election.

#8. Tuition fees rising.

#9. The problem of where to live in my final year at Lancaster.

#10. The attitude of the French towards their gardens. "An englishmans home is his castle", this clearly includes the garden. A frenchmans home must therefore be his toilet. I have witnessed a man urinating in his own garden through a friend being tagged in the same album on Facebook. Disgusted.

#11. The same album (mentioned above) also contains one frenchman being anally penetrated by another frenchman with a giant whiskey bottle. Technically the whiskey bottle is doing the anal penetration. But, this is not the point. "There's even a condom! lol". This is what today's blogg title is.

#12. My lack of Euros.

#13. My independence on my year abroad.

Accidents devastate lives.

This is according to one of those insurance adverts on daytime TV. They are right though. Only the other day, I accidentally brushed against a nettle. The events which followed are too traumatic to recount to you today. I accidentally got my car washed at a shit car-wash place. Traumatised. I accidentally fell up the stairs and got a carpet burn on my knee. My life hasn't been the same since. I think these TV "adverts" need to specify what kind of accidents devastate lives. I shall list them some options to choose from:

Accident #1: Accidentally on-purpose.

These are quite simple. "I accidentally cut her face open with a knife, cos she was bad-mouthing me", for example. Or sticking your leg out infront of someone you dislike; "Oh, I didn't see you there", when we all know you did.

Accident #2: Trivial.

These are everyday accidents. Paper cuts, walking into lamp posts, missing a step. "Argh! Bastard! Bloody paper!" Also included in this category are less everyday ones, such as brushing past nettles, being scratched by brambles or other nature related incidents. "Fucking nettles! Where's the fucking dock leaves?! What do they fucking look like?!", for example.

Accident #3: Grave.

These differ from #2 as they are more serious. They are rarer, but not as serious as #4. Examples include: missing a step, and falling down the stairs; a chair breaking; tripping on a pavement. NB: accidents in this category are most likely to qualify for annoying insurance claims.

Accident #4: Grave and deadly.

These are, as the name suggests, similar to #3 in the sense that they are grave, but differ in regards to their effect, namely their main effect is death. TV insurance companies LOVE these kinds of accidents. Not as much as they love #3.

Ouais, 'otpot.

I don't know if I've blogged about this before, quite frankly (my dear), I don't give a damn. I love it too much. I'm sure you've seen it. A lot of people have. I'm talking about Blackpool's attempt at boosting tourism, by branching out to France. Voila le link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xgxkxqqUH0&feature=related

Actually hilarious. In other, French related, news, I found old letters from my exchange partner from my first ever French exchange. From my first year of French, way back in year 8. Unfortunately, I don't have what I assume to be my piss-poor attempts at French, but I do have their attempts at English, and funnier still, my mother's attempt at French. I shall put them below.
Letter #1

Anthony PRINCE
fait le 6th January 2002
Hello Martin
I'm twelve. My Birthday is a eight july. I live in Semusac. I've got green eye, and brown hairs and short. I've got a one Brother. His name is Jonathan. He is seventeen. He has got blue eye and blond hair. I've got one dog. I haven't got computer but I sometime a bike. I like petanque and watching télevision. I like laugh and marrant. good-bye

friend Anthony

I feel bad for mocking his level of English, but I'm sure he'd do the same now, as I imagine his english to be much better.... I like "I sometime a bike".

Letter #2.

Hello Martin

I'm anthony. I had a letter. I fine than you. The France is a beautiful country. We are going to the "Ile d'Aix). In London, we went to museum of synse. I was encounscious. Do you like a dogs?
I have got a big dog but he is beautiful, clever but very old we play to the playstation. bring the code for GTA and bring crash bash please

Good at the familly

Anthony
PRINCE

They are a special bunch.

And now, the piéce de résistance. The following is something my mother (somehow) prepared in case she had to ring Anthony's house whilst I was in France. I find it funnier than you probably will.


Bonjour Je suis ^Karen la mere
Martin.
Je voudrais parler Martin.
Merci.

I'm pleased with her attempt. But it should read "Bonjour, je suis Karen, la mere(with a back accent on the first e) DE Martin. Je voudrais parler A(accent)/avec Martin." Silly things, but it's chuckle-able...

Drunks.

It was Saturday. I know this, cos on Saturday evening Katie, Ruth and myself (I know I'm meant to be last in that list, but I'm unsure what to do if there is more than one person. I went alphabetical. Let's hope I'm right...) went to a random pub somewhere between (not beterrn as I tried writing) Pontefract and Ferrybridge. I think Ferrybridge must be a new place to you blogg readers. My dad works there, at a powerstation. I have actually no idea what he does there, but he has reassured me that he is no Homer Simpson. Anyway, it was for a group called Tragical History Tour, who played (I wanted to write plaid... What is wrong with me?!) Beatles songs. If you didn't know, I fricking love the Beatles. Not as much as I love Muse, obv, but they are quite high up my list. Anyway, they were most good, I was impressed, and barely drunk. Ruth was quite tipsy. On 4 pints. She should be ashamed. We went to say farewell to her friend (not fried), who with her two other friends had gotten through 5 bottles of wine between them. This is quite a feat (feet?) bloggettes. She was incredibly drunk, and declaring her love for Ruth and Katie, and myself who she had just met. Drunken love, you understand: "I fucking love these two." etc etc. This got me thinking, what are the kinds of drunk?

Drunk #1: Happy.

These kind of drunks are just generally happy. One of the best kind of drunks. Superceded only by #2. Characteristics involve general declarations of love: e.g. "I fucking love you" "Aren't you lovely?". Their happiness spreads (usually) to others. Best enjoyed: in a club environment. Least enjoyed: never.

Drunk #2: Funny.

These kind of drunks are the best kind of drunks. Pretty much the same as #1, except with humourous antics. Best enjoyed: when sober. Least enjoyed: when #3.

Drunk #3: Angsty.

One of the worst kind of drunks to be with and to be. To avoid this state of inebriation, avoid drinking whilst slightly down. Other methods to avoid this state involve #1 or #2. Various degrees of #3 involve "I have to go home now" at midnight to the worst kind, the "I'm fine" with a fake smile. I personally like to think I have perfected this art. Best enjoyed: never. Least enjoyed: when with others.

Drunk #4: Angry.

An equally unejoyable drunk to be with. Differs from #5 as lacks violence. Generally angry, mostly at drink-spillers, queuers (people who queue, not queers, silly), and anyone and everyone. Best enjoyed: when there are others to block them out. Least enjoyed: most occasions.

Drunk #5: Violent.

One of the most unejoyable drunks to be around. Differs from #4 due to addition of violence. Level of violence can vary from not very (i.e. pushing, shoving etc) to very (full blown fights). Best enjoyed: never. Least enjoyed: all occasions.

Drunk #6: Comatose.

These are an odd kind of drunk. Often found at house parties, as opposed to in public, they still occasionally make it into public. Known most for just sitting there, apparently asleep. For the record, they are not in a coma, they are more than likely asleep. Or dead. More commonly the former. Provide entertainment for those not comatose. Entertainment usually involves permanent markers and/or a cup of cold tea. Best enjoyed: house parties. Least enjoyed: clubs/bars.

Drunk #7: Collapsible.

Anyone who says that they have never been a collapsible drunk, is a liar. This generally involves falling over anyone and anything. Collapsible drunks have two forms: violent (which often involves attempting to hit something and falling on the floor) and happy/funny (which often involves falling on the floor, and realising minutes later "I'm sat on the floor, aren't I? How did this happen?". This is followed by much laughter, and possible reoccurence of the incident). Best enjoyed: at the end of a night. Least enjoyed: by the sober.

Now, I cited "loud" as a style of drunk, but I think this comes under #1/#2. I think these are the basic types of drunks. Any more suggestions, let me know :D

Argh! It burns! It burns!

Well, I'm nearly caught up blogging. Thankfully. Last Friday I went to Whitby (pronounced Wit-bay if you are of the French persuasion...). It was most pleasant. Ridiculously sunny. More importantly, my car managed to make it there in one piece. And we beat Kathy's (sat-nav) original estimated time by about 20minutes. 'Hurrah', I hear you cry. Oh, no. This naturally meant that on top of being naturally early (force of habit), I was even earlier. Combined with Katie's lateness, and traffic encountered by Katie, this meant I had a good 45minutes waiting in my car. As I hadn't expected it to be a sunny day (they are so rare in summer in Britain), I had no suncream on my bare arms. They burned. Over the course of the day, two wet bums, and much sunburn later, the day ended. Not for good, you understand. Not in an apocalyptical way, we just went home. Whitby is nice, but it would have been much nicer if we hadn't sat and ate our fish and chips on the wet part of the beach. As a result of such foolishness, we had to endure wet bums for the rest of the day. It was most unpleasant. Over the course of the day, my face burnt too. For the first time. Ever. I never burn. EVER.

The following day, perhaps, I got bored, and decided to get my car washed. In fact, it was Sunday. Or maybe not. I really cannot remember. Anyway, I took it to one of these places that charge a fiver for a wash and for painting your wheels black, you know the sort. Actually, if you don't know the sort, where have you been? There are loads everywhere nowadays. I know of at least 4 within 3 miles of my house. Anyway, anyway, anyway, I took it to the one on Parkside. Obviously, this means nothing to you, unless you is local. Either way. It was all looking good and professional, despite the lack of english spoke there. Just a series of gestures followed by "here, please?" and "five, please". Anyway, anyway, anyway, I was quite impressed initially. I got a free smelly in my car. You know the kind, the kind that smell of "strawberry". The smell you know to be strawberry, even though it smells nothing at all like real strawberry. Upon further inspection later on, and when I say "further inspection", I mean looking at it, I noticed that they had failed to wipe of various bits of bird shit. Actually not amused. Naturally, I did nothing about it, but still. Later that day, me and Ruth tried to find somewhere to go walkies. We settled on the Old Coach Road near us. It's an old road, from a long time ago, and it goes through fields. It's about 3 miles round trip. If that. The first stretch was fine, nice normal farm public path. The second stretch was proper country lane. Muddy, and nettle-y. I wouldn't have minded so much if it had been brambles, but I fucking hate nettles. Naturally I was in piss-poor shoes and shorts, so the mud was a challenge, and in the art of avoiding nettles, I am now an expert.

Dysgu'r diwylliannol o Gymru gan Martin: Gwlad o Dduw (ac y Wlad o Ddefaid a Glaw)

Don't be alarmed, I've not gone crazy and just typed any old tripe as my blogg title. It's welsh. Hence the excessive amount of consonants. And y's. They do like their y's, don't they? All being well, it says "Martin's cultural learning in Wales: land of God (and the land of sheep and rain)". Fingers crossed. I asked a real welsh person how to say it(hence the 'Land of God'.) Well, not say it. As an Englishman (Actual fact. Quite Yorkshireish, and Sunderlandish so far. That's another story...), I lack the glands to produce enough spit to aid me in my speaking of such a lovely language which pronounces every single letter. Except Ll. And oe. These are pronounced respectively as "hiss" and "oi". That's not pronouncing every single letter. LIES! The same applies to the French actually.

"Yoo eengleesh, wiz yur seelee silen' lettairs. We pronarnce evuree lettair in Frarnce."

Whatever. Let me tell you something, France: je joue is pronounced, zje zjou. You ignore the poor 'e'. And, Ils jouent is pronounced exactly the same. This is the same for every single verb ending for 'they'. It must get pretty sad being a 3rd person plural conjugation.

So yes, back to my cultural findings from Wales. They are bilingual. I discovered this when I passed the "Croeso i Gymru" sign. Then began the barrage of lovely english names forcibly 'Welshed-up'. I cannot think of any examples of the top of my head. But there were lots. Another example of said bilingualism, for the whole 16.5% of speakers of the language within Wales, was to be found in Tesco. Yes, Tesco is bilingual in Wales. They don't wish you "goodbye", they wish you "pob hwyl". You don't buy lemonade there, you buy lemonêd. Instead of bread, you buy bara. Where the large potato section is in an English Tesco, you find a ridiculously disproportioned leek section.

Having said that, I saw not one sheep. I was a little disappointed to be honest. But, the rain held true, and helped my experience retain the true Welsh feel. I like Wales. Honestly.

Martin's return to trabajo

Another chapter in the 'catch-up' series. Last week at some point, technically the week before acually, I was rung by Jacqui asking if I wanted to work the weekend. Instinct said yes. All plans were put on hold. My works clothes were dug out, and trousers were checked to see they still fit. They did not. I had to make do with one pair, so it was all good. Then was the inevitable return to trabajo. Nice to be greeted with a pissing dog upon arriving at "base". Stupid Jan. There have been ever so slight changes at base, notices saying who is legally allowed to drive the forklifts, the locking of the dry stores, to stop people stealing etc etc. Nothing major. It disappointed me alot actually that nothing had changed barely. Ian is still as Ian as ever.

Then came actual work. They have put some sort of fancy picture on the front of the burger vans, to make them look nice. They don't. They look stupid. There is still a piss poor array of equipment on them, and the stock is still cheap-ass shit. Someone asked us if our sausages were pork. I lied. "Of course they are". Well, it wasn't a big lie. They're mostly pork. Like 20%. 20% chicken, and something percent beef. The rest, well I don't know. But university has instilled in me something that I like to call "standards". This means I won't touch our food. Except our chips. They're scrummy.

Actually, here is a link to "cafes2go"'s website. It's all lies. http://www.vivacafes.co.uk/ And here is a picture of a unit that we no longer own. It's not me working on it, thankfully. [It didn't seem to work. I'm sure you can find it on the website...]

My favourite part of the website. Health and Safety. It's just one big "lols". This is it:
"All " Cafes 2 Go " units are purpose built and are certified to comply with all current statutory gas and electric regulations


Records are kept daily for temperature controlled cooking and display temperatures to ensure food safety and hygiene



All staff undertake regular training on hygiene, health and safety and customer care.
Our food suppliers are selected from a reputable mix of local, national and multi-national companies to provide top quality produce at a competetive price


All our premises, food and bar units are regularly inspected by Wakefields Health and Safety Authority.
All Certificates for Health & Safety, Insurance and Public Liability etc are available for inspection and copies are available upon request."

A night of skank

Well, another belatened (I don't even know if that is a word. It's pronounced be-late-n'd if that helps with pronunciation) blogg. We went to Pontefract last Tuesday, with the sole purpose of getting drunk, or at least that was my purpose. Clare was driving, so her purpose was mostly not to get molested by drunks. I'm pretty sure that she succeeded. If you've never been on a night out in fair Pontefract (Ponte Carlo to the locals, pronounced like Monte Carlo, but with a P. If you're interested, Feverly Hills and Cas Vegas also exist...) it is quite an experience. Imagine the skankiest place that you can think of. Times that by about 50, throw in a couple of over 40s, and under 16s, and that's pretty much it. Having said that, the drink was cheap, and the music was acceptable. I made every effort not to touch anyone or any surfaces. Especially the walls. Oh, Christ, the smell. Mostly sweat, with the occasional whiff of piss. So, that is a typical Yorkshire night out. Skank.

Martin's cultural learnings in the South of England, aka the Sarf.

Well, today we drove to a mystical place called Ruislip (prounounced Rye-Slip) to see the Grand High Wrinklie, also known as Old Gran (my great-gran). It took 4 hours to get there. No, actually it took 6. I can't count. We took 'the scenic route' there. As usual. Always with the scenic route. From about Milton Keynes, things became humourous. People started saying things funny. Water becomes "waw-uh". I forget what else. I became suspicious of everyone. Especially the elderly. They seemed most likely to wield knives. We stopped at a Little Chef. I'll be honest; it was awful. There was a garage attached to it, which said "Bonjour" on it. I assumed that this was a nod at their nearest international neighbours, the French, who are at least 200miles away. It makes me wonder, do they have "Och aye the noo" on petrol stations up in the North East? Or, something crazy and Norwegian. Most odd. It was just generically boring.

(I also understand that today I did not go to the South, I started this nearly a fortnight ago. I thought I had better publish it. Soz 'ard)

Why would I want to get into Dame Judi Dench's pants?!

Well, things have been uneventful of late. Again. Having said that, I have sent off 3 old phones to envirophone.com, so that they send me some monies back. Admittedly, it'll only be about £50, but still, that's £50 more than I have.

On Friday, my sister and I did something most odd. We baked together. Well, I baked more, but she did stuff. Like cutting the butter into cubes, and putting the flour away. We made scones and then we made cornflake buns with sultanas in. I've not had a cornflake bun yet, but the scones are actually delicious.

Tomorrow involves an epic trek to London and back, well to Ruislip to be precise, to see my gran. Mum thinks my gran doesn't have long left (she is 93!), and as such we should all go visit her. I'm not complaining, I'm just preparing for the "oooh look at that fat!" from her. Ahh, the elderly.

Marticito: nm a tiny Martin.

Well, my love for Spanish has been rekindled recently. I watched .rec, a Spanish horror film. It is actually amazing. It is filmed in the same style as the Blair Witch Project, but is about an apartment block that is cordoned off by the government cos of a virus outbreak. It's actually amazing. And, I got alot out of it language-wise. All is good :)

In other news, I returned to fair Lancaster on Sunday, for the anniversary of Tom-wa's birth. It was most pleasant. We watched a film about an elderly Elvis stopping an evil Egyptian mummy that was sucking people's souls out through their anus'. It was surprisingly good. I helped Holly attempt to sort their old house out too, which was bad. It felt really sad leaving Lancaster, again. Having said that, I have attempted to organise a Lancaster going-out party.

Not alot has happened recently, mostly taxiing the mother and sister around to various places. The nail place. Xscape. The hair place. Xscape. The hospital. Xscape. Getting annoyed of it now. We (that is to say Becca, Clare, Ruth, Craig and myself) went to see "The Proposal" the other day. It was classic rom-com. The premise is simple: Sandra Bullock needs to mary Ryan Reynolds to stay in the country (like America would deport a Canadian). They go to his parents house. Hilarity ensues. What do we think happens? Rom-com law specifically states that they must fall in love. And, they do. It's all very generic. Personally, I think that the audience laughed more than the film was worth, and some people (*coughs* Craig and Clare) cried more than it was worth. But, it was still a pleasant-enough film.

The parents went away somewhere yesterday. My dad was going to see trains, and thought he'd drag the mother along. She doesn't know what she's let herself in for. As such, today's plan is to make scones, and to attempt to make some clusters (cornflakes and raisins coated in chocolate), with the sister. After we have been to the supermarché, obviously. That is all for now. I think. I don't know anymore.

Je suis en panne.

My car is broken. I don't know what is wrong with it. I just know that it refuses to start. It has plenty of petrol in it, so it's not that. It's not the battery either as the lights still light up. It just won't start, so my suspicions lead me to believe that it is the ignition. Update: my dad checked it, and he says it's the battery. I was wrong.

I got another email from the delightful "Gwenaelle" today. It seems there will be a "godfather scheme" whilst in Rennes. It's called "parrainage", which is the godfather scheme. I have been assigned 'Laura Floch' as my "parrain", which I looked up. It means "godfather". I will be a "filleul", which means "godson". There really is something wrong with France.

Snape, Snape, Severus Snape.

Well, my Harry Potter crusade reached a climax today as I went to see it in the cinema. I was looking forward to it, and I don't quite feel that it was as good as I expected. Having said that, I have resumed my crusade against the books, and am currently storming my way through book five. The film misses alot out, but the fifth film is good.

Tomorrow it is my sister's "graduation". I shall explain this. In my old school, which is technically my sister's current school, at the end of each year, there is a "graduation" ceremony in which they hand out certificates to everyone based on a. how many merits they have got during the year; b. how well you've done in specific subjects. They also announce the "head boy" and "head girl" of the year group. My sister won it last year. So, as well as beating me in all her predicted grades, and all her actual grades, she is getting "head girl". I wanted "head boy" as a child, but never got it. Great. She is also singing a song. God knows how it gonna go, they have 10 forms to get through in 2 hours. It's gonna be a long afternoon, on uncomfy seats. Great.

No será un sin-hogar!

Well, yesterday was fun. Jessica and I went to Cannon Hall Farm. We were going to go to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, but we got there, and it was a. full of children, b. full of the elderly and c. the carpark was full. So, we trundled off to Cannon Hall Farm. It is just a farm. With a stately-home attatched. Having said that, it was quite exciting. We paid our money, got our sticker (which wasn't of the pig, like it used to be as a child) and our animal feed. Cows. Cows are actually evil. As a child, you learn to never feed them again. "Mummy? Can I feed the cows?" you ask, as your hand is stretched out, ignoring the warning your mother is about to give. As she goes "Don't feed the cows, they have long tongues", you learn this for yourself. So much slaver. Naturally, I just settled on stroking the cows, something they hate, and as such, try to lick you with their massive cow tongues. We moved on to donkeys. Donkeys are lovely, and don't try to bite your fingers off as they eat the peculiar feed in your hand. Unlike some animals, namely goats. Twice I was bitten by bastard goats. Having said that, there were some really cute baby goats (we called them 'goatlings'), that Jess and I wanted to steal.

Today, I found out that I have got a place in 'una residencia' in Girona. This is good, but I'm unsure if it is cheap. I forget. Rebecca will know...

Traffic Wardens, Liquorice and Windmills.

Well, today I had my first run-in (ever) with a traffic warden. At first I just thought it was an unusually short man with some sort of device, then I realised it must have been "Casual Monday" as he was a traffic warden. In shorts. I hope it absolutely buckets it down today. In Pontefract. I was dropping the mother off at the bus station so she could renew my sisters bus pass. After what I imagine to be 3minutes and 31 seconds, the warden came up to the window to remind me that I had 1mintue and 29 seconds remaining. At which I pointed out that my mother was on crutches. He then saw her emerging from the bus station, and fucked off. The woman is a legend. She scares traffic wardens away. Even 'casual' ones.

Yesterday was the epic Liquorice Festival in Pontefract. Epic is not the right word. I think the word I'm looking for is... shit. Yes. Shit is just the right word. I had never been to the Liquorice Festival before, and I can see why. It was just a series of stalls selling either liquorice, liquorice parafernalia (sp.) or crafty shit. Plus, for some unknown reason, there was an african choir thing on a stage. I'm unsure what they had to do with proceedings, but people clapped when they finished a song, so I assume people liked them. Or hated them, and were clapping them because they had finished. Either way.

The evening brought with it a trip to the cinema. Being 20, I now have lots of choices over what film I go to see. In fact, I can see anything I like. Having said that, we went to see Bruno. It was rather gay. In fact, there was more nakedness than Borat. But, it was funny nonetheless. Windmills, in the title of today's blogg, refers to Bruno. If you see it, you will understand.

Ps. Who put down "boring" in the boxes the other day? hmmmm?

WTF?!

The trip to take my sister to her dance class was most odd. As usual, we got held up at the railway cross in' Lane. Waiting for the train to come, as per, took forever. When it passed, and the barrier lifted, a flood of men in pink came cycling through. I say flood, I mean 5. Me and my sister both chuckled, confusedly, and assumed that it must have been either the Tour de Featherstone, or Featherstone Gay Pride. Perhaps a mix of both. Either way, it explained the abating mob at the bottom of' Lane; complete with pitchforks and flaming torches. It was most odd.