"Put the boobies down," I shout at the twelve year old kids I co-'lead' in their weekly drama club, "put the boobies down and come and sit in a circle." They have discovered the large pair of plastic breasts in the back stage area. They are not interested in me. They are interested in the boobies. "I don't want to shout at you," I shout at them. One of them shouts at me to shout at the rest of them. I tell her if she wasn't shouting at me I wouldn't have to shout either. "If I wear the boobies will you listen to me for once?" I shout. They consider this for a few moments and then decide that no, even if I were to wear the plastic boobies, they would still not listen to me. And then they did a really good rehearsal and I almost felt proud.
Sunday, April 28, 2002
beard today, beard tomorrow, beard the day after...
I’m becoming increasingly interested in the idea of a gap year, the possibilities being that
a) after a year away from the education system I’d have a renewed longing for knowledge.
b) after a year away from the education system I’d have found something else to do, and wouldn’t actually go to university.
or
c) i’d be dead.
It would also mean I wouldn’t have to worry about university for another two years, by which time I might have some idea of what I want to do with my life. Or, yes, I’d be dead.
--
In other news - after attending my second murder mystery party last night, I am pleased to announce that I am not, I repeat, Not a murderer. I do, however, appear to have mistaken a felt tip pen for eyeliner, hence the drawn on beard which, three showers later, seems will occupy my face forever. They don’t call me Tim the Style-Man Partridge, for nuttin’...
Tuesday, April 23, 2002
spirals and margins
I think what I need rather than a website, is a notepad.
Monday, April 15, 2002
say no-way, to BK
Let me tell you a sad and moving story. It is a story about a boy, a tent and a fast food chain. A story of tears and tragedy and the ever looming possibility of evil triumphing over good. In that way it is similar to Lord of the Rings. Only it is better. Because Lord of the Rings was about as interesting as watching dogs pee, and this story is, as previously mentioned, sad and moving.
The story is also very short, and it goes like this:
I spent the last four days completing the Silver level of the Duke of Edinburgh Award. As well as completing a set number of hours doing a sport, a skill and some voluntary work, this masochistic qualification involved spending three nights in three different campsites, each day walking between them carrying all the worldly possessions I have ever cared about. And a packet of snack-size Mars Bars.
Not that it didn’t have its moments, but it was cold and tiring. COLD and TIRING. And one thing alone got me through the coldness and the exhaustion of the weekend. One thing. And that one thing was the Burger King meal I was going to buy myself from the service station on the minibus ride back. So it may be full of excrement. So it may be well past its eat-by date. So it may have been taken from an undernourished, diseased cow raised by underpaid, diseased third world labourers, but it was a burger. And I like my burgers like I like my women: hot, juicy and covered in relish.
So we complete this thirty mile trek and we don’t die, and we make it back to the minibus, and we’re driving back to sunny sunny Coventry, and we stop at said service station, and we go into the service station, and walk to the Burger King counter, and we look at what mouth-watering options were available, and we gasp.
They were all. Sold. Out.
Everything. Every damn thing. Everything except the Deli Wrap.
“This is some sort of sick, cruel joke,” I exclaimed loudly enough so that the spotty staff would hear me, “I don’t want a friggin’ Deli Wrap!”
This was followed by a rather embarrassing tantrum. However, it was a provoked tantrum. A tantrum caused directly by the cold-hearted, money grabbing, hell-going Burger King corporation.
So I ask of you only this: Boycott Burger King. Show them that while we’ll grudgingly accept decades of dodgy work ethics, the minute they mess with me and my stomach we mean business. We will take our business elsewhere. For while McDonalds may serve inferior meat and house uncomfortable seating, their fries taste nicer, and they’re always open for business. God Bless Ronald McDonald, and God Bless America.
Sunday, April 7, 2002
partridge: a profile
After a hiatus of many months, Tim Partridge, world famous writer and the inventor of ketchup, has published another addition to his collection of short essays. Though the project, initially launched as an attempt to write a weekly column, has been described as "misguided" by some, Partridge persevered for many weeks. However, soon deadlines began to be missed as the work became shodier and more bizarre. "I have no idea what he's talking about half the time," one source was heard to say. "It's just sensationalism," said another, biting into his Big Mac. It wasn't before long before he took a break to, in his own words, "be more like Dave Eggers."
I travelled to his poverished writers hovel in rural Warwickshire to find out what his thinking was behind this dramatic return.
Me: Thank you for talking to us.
Partridge: That's okay. In fact, it's really okay. Really, really okay. You can talk to me any time. Nobody ever does anymore. Would you like to stay for dinner? Would you like to stay over? We can watch videos and gossip and play Truth or Dare...
Me: Um, no thanks.
Partridge: Are you sure? You can borrow a t-shirt to sleep in if you like. Not that there'll be much sleeping if you know what I mean, wink wink nudge nudge.
Me: So I was wondering -
Partridge: Yes?
Me: Your new 'column' or 'entry' or 'article' or 'essay' or whatever you call them these days, begins with flippant and rather disrespectful remarks concerning the Queen Mother's death. Do you think this is really appropriate for this time?
Partridge: Absolutely. The press are far to caught up with being nice and sensitive. What is needed to take Britain out of the deep state of concentrated mourning it has fallen into, is a piece of writing including the word 'Queen', 'Mother' and 'underwear' in the same sentence. I have risen to the challenge, and I have provided.
Me: From this point, you go to give your views about the monarchy in general. Would you not say that the way in which you present these opinions, particularly at the end of the piece, are preachy and patronizing?
Partridge: How can you say that about me? Do you not know who I am? Do you even understand the words I wrote? What this society needs is journalists who are willing to work with the news-makers not against them. You are clearly not of that type.
Me: We'll move on. The word on the grapevine is you've been writing fiction and small bits of text you call 'shorts'. What caused you to return to this previous format?
Partridge: I just felt like a change.
Me: Then it's gothing nothing to do with the fact that a good friend of yours has also started writing a weekly column.
Partridge: Not at all.
Me: It's not that you feel threatened by this and so feel the need to, so-to-speak, 'keep up with him'.
Partridge: Not at all.
Me: Therefore you'd be perfectly willing to provide a link to him.
Partridge: Absolutely.
Me: And a link to the other friend of your's diary with which it is hosted.
Partridge: I would have no problem with that.
Me: Well?
Partridge: Well what?
Me: The links?
Partridge: I'm sorry, I need to go now. I must stop my cat having sex with the squirrels.
I agree to let Partridge go, wishing not to push him further. Obviously a deeply disturbed man, I began to worry over my own safety should he get out of hand. His time away appears to have brought anything but success to his mental health. As for Partridge's career - only time will tell.
For once I am ahead of technology. I am holding my DVD player and running as fast as my lanky, under-exercised, muscle-lacking legs will carry me. I am running away from my collection of three VHS vidoes, and am running to the future.
I am runninng to the future and as I run I am collecting DVDs from the ground until, when I have collected enough to progress to Level Two ("The Film Buff's Layre"), a giant hand will appear from nowhere and push me over and laugh at me because DVDs will have become obsolete and I'll look silly.
If DVD wasn't already destined to be the next Betamax, my use of it will have almost certainly have hexed it, just like it did the Sega Game Gear and IRC. This is why it is so important for my to be constantly behind the times. The second I touch new technology it suffers a slow, lingering death. Hell, I'll even take resposibility for the demise of Compuserve. DVD is over, my friends. You just watch...
Thursday, April 4, 2002
bool deal wanted (apply within)
It has taken me almost a month, but I have completed a piece of fiction. It is 1402 glorious words long and is either kind of funny or very stupid - I haven't quite decided yet - containting within it elements concerning religion, fat ladies and a Swedish air-hostess with a PhD in astrophysics. I am going to try submitting it to various Proper Internet Magazines (tm) and then when they reject it publish it here. But for now, here's an extract:
--
Dave looked around - at the sand and the cacti and the dung beetles - and sighed the sigh of a man who had pledged, "to do Lent properly".
Oh it had seemed all very well at the church service - how could it not? The evangelic priest waved his arms in the air - the congregation waved their arms in the air. The evangelical priest looked to the skies - the congregation looked to the skies. The evangelical priest cleared his throat - the congregation cleared their throats. The evangelical priest shouted, loudly and clearly, with purpose and conviction, "TEMPTATION!" and the congregation slapped their thighs, reached deep into their souls, tugged at their vocal chords, clasped their fists, and shouted right back at him, "TEMPTATION!" and the choir ran a scale, did a warm-up exercise, and, in perfect sweet harmony sang, in G major, "TEMP-TATIO-N!".
God Save the Queen - and her underwear
How you actually go about abolishing a family I’m unsure of. Perhaps each member could be assigned to another family. We bagsy Prince Philip. (more...)
Popcorn
We're sitting in the cinema and I'm attempting to multitask. While one hand is thrust deep into the Pick 'n' Mix bag (more...)
F.C. Coplestone (he da man)
I have discovered a sure-fire way to brighten up any piece of academic word. Through the simple application of 'homeboy slang' (more...)
Partridge's Second Theory of Bisexuality
Sitting in a bar last night, the conversation turned, as it occasionally does, to having sex with old people. (more...)
Here's Johnny
I could have set my research assistant on the case, but unfortunately she was too busy chasing mice, urinating in the flower beds (more...)
