It's not you, it's me.

It gets a bit convoluted here. Where do we start. So after 40 days and 40 nights wandering around the lone and level sands that Shelley describes, observing all the beautiful, vague names and pondering the subjectivity of history, I stumbled into a strange land, no more objective (both remain, I think, on about 41% objecitivity), but with a lot less Baudrillard and more Peter Shaffer and ales. Yeah, I finished mt term paper. Splendid.

So after a slight speckle of deep-turqoising with my fellow post-graduates, we decided to stroll down that evening to some kind of poetry event down at the Sanctuary cafe. Now don't get me wrong, I do love poetry. But I had a mildly distressing experience with a poetry night down at the Sanctuary a few months ago (Brighton, what has happened to you? It made me want to increase the weight of the Dead Poets pressing down on T. S. Eliot's back.). But after having fun at Sam's poetry evening at the Fringe Cafe Bar, I thought why not, and getting my sheet of paper with the poem upon it, I strolled off to meet the po-mo bo-ho's down at the Lion and Lobster. Pint of ale. Dashing off to sign up whilst Gareth told me anecdotes.

DYING FOR A BABY? I NEARLY DID.

Sign up. Run back. Finish pint of ale. Back to the Sanctuary. Grantchester?

So in we go. Quite packed. Surprise no. 1 is that it's a competition. People stand up and read out various pieces of poetry, varying from the hip-hop freestylin' action to the delicate syllables of modernism. And probably a couple about a flower in a jug. I go and read out The Ballad of Tom Waits and Art Garfunkel. Nice. Goes down quite well, even if I say so myself. One day, that growly-voiced singer will be released.

Okay. Surprise no. 2. There's more than one round. In fact, there is a second round. And, being in it, I have to read out another poem. Deary me. What the bloody darn heck am I going to say? What do I know off by heart? It's going to have to be a Can't Snorkel song, performed in a 'poetic' style. What sounds like a poem? Pig Heart Boy.

All ready, until the girl who reads directly before me does a poem about how her younger brother has a hole in his heart. No. That's probaly surprise no. 3. It's too late, and up to the microphone I go;

"No kocher organs for this lad,
No human transplant from his dad,
No living duck plunged into his chest,
Just porcine ventricle, the best!

Pig Heart Boy, he is a pig heart boy."

We finish the second round. I doubt very much I'm in the third one, and pop upstairs during the break, to go see Jacob. He's upstairs. It's not worth the strapping young lads. I agree with him. Rant at Jacob and Sam and Maya. Pop downstairs. "Oh Chris you've missed your slot."

Sugar. I've not only missed my slot but I wouldn't have a darn thing to say even if I'd been there. I'm on next. It's going to have to be Norris Mc Whirter, the new Can't Snorkel party number. For a point of information, Norris was editor of the Guinness Book of Records until his death in the late part of 2004. We will miss him, despite his dubious far right leanings. He set up the book with his brother, Alan Mc Whirter, who was killed by the IRA.

"Oh, the man with the strongest human bite.

He's the strongest man in town.

Oh, the man with the strongest human bite,

He's the strongest man around."

It didn't work out as the greatest poetic work since The Waste Land, (partly because Larkin has already stolen that crown with "Essential Beauty" but also because it sucked.) Went quite well. Needless to say I didn't win, and Girl Who Read Poem about Brother with Hole in the Heart did. Bless her. Good poet.

So I ended up going home with a load of people off my course, except I put them off by buying milk, so I actually dropped the milk off home and picked up a bottle of white wine from my house and went home with Alison, Karim and NICKY? she suggested that I write her name like that. Like a fool (amidst Alison and Karim arguing about Derrida and the opening of a bottle of wine with a screwdriver) I let the fact that I am called Shiny Mc Shine slip, not to mention the whole Dolores Luxedo slice of pie that slid out onto the pie dish recently. And she said that she would find me on the internet. So. lassie, do say hello if you're popping in. Not to mention that you're a hot slice of lady pie who is currently doing the spelling and grammar for a 'dirty' magazine and thinking about everyone's favourite psychoanalyst. We should pop into your local for a pint of ale?

Joy!

Tree
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Handed it in. Splendid. Marvellous. No more deadlines until 2006. This is good. Been hangin' out with the postgraduates this morning. Bless their socks.

So I'm going to need to think of new things to do with my life now. Suggestions welcome. Owl-fighting no longer an option.

House Cooling party kicked ass. Couldn't have gone better. Except maybe I could have fallen asleep a bit later. Can't Snorkel played a semi-unplugged acrostic set. That was cool. Duck the spinach! Lovely lovely.

sorry, not feeling very articulate this morning.

50 Hours to go.

Can't Snorkel take to the stage
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

"On the other hand if you asked me whether I believe the paper before me will continue to obey the rules of physical existence I would stake any money I have on that, if only because the money would be a part of the same physical existence." - William Golding

Fighting an Owl

Short-eared Owl
Originally uploaded by kms.

So I was wondering if anyone here had ever had any good fights with owls? Don't get me wrong, I'm no owl hater, but occasionally you are sneaking aroud in the barn late at night, and an owl will come plunging at you with it's claws out right in front of you, and fighting the owl is the only real option. The last time I was sneaking around, a proper big barn owl launched itself at me, obviously believing I was a large mouse or another type of prey. I put up a good fight, and beat the owl against a large wooden pillar that no doubt was integral to the structure of the barn, but this didn't prevent the owl's claws sinking yet deeper into the skin of my arms. Much as I beat this owl against the pillar, it would not let go. I would not stop the frenzied thrashing of a man impaled. It would not the instinctive sinking of claws into agressor. It seemed like a no-win situation. Eventually I threw myself on the ground, yelping like a sick meercat. The owl seeming to sense victory, relaxed its claws for a moment. I leapt up, grabbing the owl with both hands, and bashed it into the pillar one last time. Whilst it lay dazed, I ran for cover, refusing to leave my farmhouse for two days. Within a matter of hours, the owl had retained all normal functions, and is now housed in my barn. Everything is back to the way it used to be. Has anyone else here had a similar fight with an owl? I would love to hear from you.

Unrequiting.

The Doctor is Waiting
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Matter of days to go. Last night I accidentally drank a bottle of red wine on my own whilst trying to write my essay. I am such a fool. Rosie did indeed mock me. Now I feel a bit ill, and hopefully will not cornflake boke all over this library computer.

I had a couple of quotes to put on here but they are on a disk and I don't have a disk. I mean, they are at home and I don't have a disk.

Brighton Library is a bit like a girl with a hare lip.

He's Inersant!

Auntie Jean
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

So much work to do. Apologies for anti-socialness.

Pope Idol

Making your own facial hair from the hair of others.
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Matt the Cripple came to stay. George and Piet came down as well but George was unconscious for most of it. I hurt really bad. Got some sleep in the park, and a bit later in the pub. After work on Friday I got to the house, Matt the Cripple is there with toy sunglasses and cigarette holder waving around a big knife that he is using to move miscellaneous white powder about.

The Pope is dead, he has shuffled up the stairway to heaven (or the pope-slope). Who's next in the pope-line? POPE IDOL is the only way to find out.

No, I am sad. Good Catholic boy that I am.

So much work to do now. I came second place in a poetry competition. Got beaten to first place by some guy who took his clothes off. This is cheeky, I think.

But it was fun. The only good poetry night I've ever been to.

Rosanne went crazy and vanished, only to be found wandering about outside Sainsburies looking puzzled. We made a big jug of gravy.

Fat fat fat, until your daddy takes the biscuit away.