Now Some of the Actual Scenery.

Credits to Ruby.

I was not aware my teeth were that nice.

I think I screwed up my stats last post, so:

  • There are 137 Commonwealth cemeteries in the Ypres area
  • 90,00 of the men who died in the Salient have no known grave. Their memorials are at Tyne Cot and the Menin Gate (their names wouldn’t fit on one memorial)
  • On the first of July 1916, 58,000 men fell, 19,000 of them killed.
  • There are over 73,000 names on the Thiepval Memorial.

  Do the maths yourself, then take into account I haven’t mentioned German casualties.

WWI: Started 1914, Finished 1945

  Gotta love the Europeans. For a country that only contains 731,000,000 people, we sure are good at fucking up the rest of the planet. Which is apparently marginally less than sixty billion people.   Here is some evidence of this:   Can you guess where we went yet? No? Here’s some more clues.    

  I came more close to crying on that two-day trip than I have in the last year at anything (including when Bob left My Chem). I only have to explain to a retard why. Ever been in a graveyard? Ever been in one full of the remains of twenty-five thousand men thrown in a mass grave? Seen a memorial? How about one to fifty-five thousand soldiers with no known grave? 

  Bummer. In case you are retarded, it was a school trip to Belgium (though we slept in Lille without realising and the Somme is French)… 

  I said I’d name drop, so here are some photos of Pugsley and I thoroughly enjoying ourselves, along with the rest of the Most Disliked, Loud Group to Sit On the Coach:

 

  

   

  More photos coming soon if Ruby emails me them and I get Pugsley to show me how my phone works. 

  Happy belated St George’s Day. 

   

And Thus the 20th April Shalt Never Be Forgot… Until Tomorrow.

  I thought I’d blog because I’m in a really good place right now mentally and I want to share the peace with you (though physically I’m a mess. I jammed my neck and needed a shoulder massage before I could put my backpack on properly again. Yes, I am a pansy).

  Firstly, Matt the Bog Roll Man has a friend, which seems to make him happy. I named him Monster:

  I checked my email earlier and nearly passed out from the amount of reviews, favourites and alerts my current Maximum Ride fan fiction, Ella’s Blog: Summer Vacation with the Flock, has. I checked and there are ninety reviews. For fourteen chapters. That’s probably only about six per chapter, but considering I am bad at updating and put in shameless MCR references, I am very proud. And glad the next chapter’s the last…

  Oh yeah, I got my Chemistry and Biology GCSE module results back this lunchtime. A* for both, which shocked me… Remember this? Yeah. I was a mess. Then I took an exam that mentioned butane and kerosene and had a silent mental breakdown at my desk. I realise this is sad and resolve to only look on the bright side of exams next time. For instance, I got chocolates when I got home. I consider this to be So Cool I had to capitalise those words.

  I’ll never do it again.

  I also went to the dentist and my teeth rock (which I already knew ’cause since I got my retainer off I smile much more) but they need sealing up, or something. Still, better that than an artery…

  Listening to Headfirst For Halos, knowing you’re going to deepest darkest Europe (Belgium) on Friday with some of your best friends, is really good for my neck. Even though I get the feeling I will get injured in a trench by Elizabeth.

Just An Average Sunday, Then

  We’re going out in a bit to my second cousin Riley’s first birthday, which seems a bit pointless as he is not even aware that he is a year older. Still, it’s a celebration that he hasn’t died of the Plague yet – and it’s only twenty more years until the big two one. Don’t tell his parents.

  I don’t know how many of you know this, but on the 23rd May I am running (or jogging, possibly walking) five kilometers for the Race for Life and my Duke of Edinburgh award scheme. The widget to sponsor me is on the sidebar, if you have any spare cash/don’t want to get cancer. Anyway, part of my D. of E. work is to volunteer and raise money for Cancer Research, aka Race for Life. This meant that I was up at five o’clock this morning (having had five and a half hours sleep last night) to do a bootsale. In the cold. Selling my old junk next to my brother, who’s eleven and made fifteen quid more than me. I scraped £20 because my dad donated his float.

  I don’t think I’m an entrepeneur.

  Then I cleaned the stove, because I also owe my dad money for the MP3 player I got last week which is expensive as I am skint. So I made the kitchen stove look like this:

  Masterchef, here I come – through the back door, clutching Cillit Bang and rubber gloves.

  NB: happy-birthday-for-Friday to G. Way, and does anyone else think it’s ironic that the post that’s got the most comments on here is the one with the least words?

You Get Chocolate, I Get a Sewing Box

  Now I’m off to see what websites I can get my hands on, so I can rip up some clothes and rip off some designers.

  All hail Easter Sunday.

Define: Artistitis

This video was made by  Chantal Claret, who I mentioned before:

 Go to www.morningwoodrocks.com to see the making of the video, which is amusing because a) everything is  DIY and inspiring, and b) you can hear Jimmy chuckling in the background.

  Anyway, I was thinking about this blog at some point in the last week, and how so many ‘journalist’s blogs’ are really just spaces for whining posers who tell themselves that the reason they haven’t got a big break is because no one understands them, or they have so much talent it’s painful, which automatically means the world hates them. Same with a lot of ‘artists’ and ‘musicians’.

  I find this quite funny, and every time I think I’m heading toward ‘artistitis’, as it will henceforth be known, I resolve to never contract such a dreadful disease. If I do, I will embark on a medicine of Mindless Self Indulgence songs and write about stuff people want to read, or at least something that is vaguely interesting. Something like, I don’t know, my friends. They rock, even the wierd ones.

  I highly doubt this blog will ever reach BBC News or have a thousand hits a week, just like I highly doubt I will never earn a pot of cash from writing fiction stories or touring in a van with rock bands, smelling of petrol stations. I don’t think I really want to, though. The main way of inoculating yourself against artistitis is to not bother with the red carpet dream, or the fantasy that you’ll receive thousands of fan-made gifts every birthday. You don’t need them if you’ve got the things you care about around you, like your friends, your dog, or a new karate grade.

  I can’t find a picture of LiZzi or Ruby or my cousins and I at the grading we did a couple of weeks ago, so meet Fred.