Deadline Looming
Well here I am again, 6 coffees and 4 cigarettes into a panic-read deadline essay frenzy, having completely failed to heed three years of undergraduate essay panic experince. I got the reading done at least, but for some strange reason I repeatedly kept finding other, more interesting things to do...such as pairing my socks, organising the tins in my cupbard by alphabet and then by 'genre.' On that note - I don't know why, but I have somehow managed to collect 4 tins of coconut milk, an industrial green beret sized sack of oatmeal and 8 tins of minestrone soup, well at least if the bomb drops I'll die of total lack of imagination before the radiation sickness turns my toes all curly.
Still haven't managed to produce any poetry, but have a few ideas gatering dust somewhere in a drawer, so hopefully when I get this essay out of the way I can settle in for some much needed poetry related therapy.
Current themes under consideration include:
- Mice in the kitchen
Apparently we have mice in the student house, (shock, horror) but as of yet they have decided to omit our smaller side kitchen from their wanderings, presumably because we clean it and don't leave half eaten curries and naan breads festering in cupboards.
- My Welsh Neighbour
As indicated by my cunningly subtle title, I have a Welsh neighbour. He's a great chap, but with a few unusual habits.
- Tescos
My Tescos fethish continues to haunt me, so I think it's about time I captured my sentiments in verse. I know for fact that if this current Danish cartoon fiasco does lead us into nuclear war the only things to servive will be cockroaches and Tescos store workers. Apparently you can pull their heads clean off and they can continue with their duties for 3 days afterwards. Of course the only other thing to survive would be the Ginsters cornish pasty, a pastry so tough and unforgiving that NASA actually contemplated reinforcing the re-entry sheilds of their Space Shuttle with a half-inch of Ginsters pasty dough. That's not to say that I don't like pasties, personally I think they're a much maligned addition to the cultural cuisine, but for some reason Ginsters believe that we, the British, like our pasties dry, flaky and 'claggy', more or less the same consistency of carpet underlay that's spent the last two years supporting the social life of blue/green algae in the canal, or otherwise protecting a dog owner's seat covers. I don't know what kind of market research these sadists are doing, but I get the feeling they haven't quite got to grips with the concept of 'tasty pasty.' I don't know how they could get something so simple so very very wrong, but I'm guessing they arn't using the highest grade of meat currently available. Come to think of it, what meat is actually grey in colour?
Still haven't managed to produce any poetry, but have a few ideas gatering dust somewhere in a drawer, so hopefully when I get this essay out of the way I can settle in for some much needed poetry related therapy.
Current themes under consideration include:
- Mice in the kitchen
Apparently we have mice in the student house, (shock, horror) but as of yet they have decided to omit our smaller side kitchen from their wanderings, presumably because we clean it and don't leave half eaten curries and naan breads festering in cupboards.
- My Welsh Neighbour
As indicated by my cunningly subtle title, I have a Welsh neighbour. He's a great chap, but with a few unusual habits.
- Tescos
My Tescos fethish continues to haunt me, so I think it's about time I captured my sentiments in verse. I know for fact that if this current Danish cartoon fiasco does lead us into nuclear war the only things to servive will be cockroaches and Tescos store workers. Apparently you can pull their heads clean off and they can continue with their duties for 3 days afterwards. Of course the only other thing to survive would be the Ginsters cornish pasty, a pastry so tough and unforgiving that NASA actually contemplated reinforcing the re-entry sheilds of their Space Shuttle with a half-inch of Ginsters pasty dough. That's not to say that I don't like pasties, personally I think they're a much maligned addition to the cultural cuisine, but for some reason Ginsters believe that we, the British, like our pasties dry, flaky and 'claggy', more or less the same consistency of carpet underlay that's spent the last two years supporting the social life of blue/green algae in the canal, or otherwise protecting a dog owner's seat covers. I don't know what kind of market research these sadists are doing, but I get the feeling they haven't quite got to grips with the concept of 'tasty pasty.' I don't know how they could get something so simple so very very wrong, but I'm guessing they arn't using the highest grade of meat currently available. Come to think of it, what meat is actually grey in colour?
posted by JoeBloggs | 3:35 PM
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