Riding Paddy MCGinty’s goat

Last night was a reprise of that which I said to never speak of again. But it was different. As if it wasn’t, and we didn’t get them all right, then shame on us. But is was different. Of course it was different.

How long does it take? The build-up of what you have been denied, to become an overarching obsession? You could always take it from somewhere else, living with the damage it would probably do to you. Then again, the longing and never knowing is probably better than actuality. You can always lie to yourself.

I guess it could only be in Cambridge-Town that you would get a round on solid state physics. (Which! For shame! I got one wrong! Then again, I could quibble over whether any of the questions were anything other than tangentially solid state physics, and point out I didn’t actually do much solid state physics. But enough I should have got all the questions right. sigh If you must know, they were pretty easy questions. I mean, no two fermions occupying the same quantum state? Schoolboy stuff.)

You know what I despise? People who tell me you can’t afford not to. I really despise that. If I could afford to, I would. Yes, I am aware of the longer-term gain, the valid reasons why I should. But here is the killer. I. Can’t. Afford. It. There is always the looking forward, always hoping things will be better next year. This time next year, all will be better. Or just a different kind of the same.

We reckon the quiz is fixed, anyhow. We were second after the first four rounds (which included the dubiously-titled solid state physics one) but then ended up second last after the next few. And it was a spectacular jump from those lower down the echelons (but higher up the social scale. chin-chin!) You have to think, how those a good decade younger than the youngest of our team could answer questions on popular four man beat combos from before they were born. And not even that, elevator music covers of songs by popular four man beat combos from before they were born. And more than even that, elevator music covers of songs by popular four man beat combos from before they were born from countries other than their birthplaces. And more so even than that, elevator music covers of songs by popular four man beat combos from before they were born from countries other than their birthplaces by Al Green. I kid you not.

Some say that knowledge is something that you never have. Avoiding people you never met is a funny old caper. Me, I just laugh. I am too old to be worried by such things. Or just too old.

Then we had the pasta round. Name the shape. Oh dear. Well, I can see Thomas the Tank Engine shapes, and, errr, macaroni, and, well, Waitrose Durum Wheat pasta, and, ack, you know… so evidently the students knew their pastas. I guess dried flour products are what they survive on. But with caviar. Being toffs and all.

Still, from second, to second last, to third. In your face, Cambridge-Town branes!

Before I went a-quizzing, I started work on the allotment. See, dedication. And not wanting to waste the seven pounds of sterling it costs me a year (wavied for the first year, as it needs a bit of work done. And that includes the two pounds of sterling surcharge for water.) And boy, do my arms now ache. Or they did a bit last night. The only thing I exercise these days is my wit. Not that you could tell to look at me, oh no. I can still get in to the same trousers I was wearing, um, last year. And that is as I am still wearing the same trousers I got last year. Which is a bit misleading, as I usually wear jeans. 501s. I like my 501s. I do have trousers, though.

No. Which reminds me of another story. Ish. Every day, I wander down town with someone else who buys his lunch therein. And the shop to which he buys his lunch (I make my own every morn, fact-fans) has magazines. Those celebutard ones. Every day I marvel at them, with their SCREAMING headlines about people whom I don’t recognise neither from their picture nor name. Sometimes I do. Not often. Every day I consider buying one, just to see what it contains. Every day I don’t. Yesterday, however, I resolved to actually look inside one. My hand stretched out. But do you know? In the end I didn’t have the nerve. So I will forever wonder. Until I work up the moral fortitude. Which might be today. All my celebutard knowledge comes from popbitch, as it has done since issue three. This has nothing to do with the quiz. Or me wearing trousers. (Watch it.) Much as it goes, nothing to do with anything, really.

Last section of this post, honest. And this may sound odd. Or no odder than normal, that is what I aim for. I have just looked at my hands. That may seem strange, considering I type all day long, but I don’t need to look down there. The benefits of touch typing. Anyhow. I just have. And you know what? They don’t look like my hands. I am talking about the backs of them. I will turn them over when I have finished this paragraph and look at the palms to see if they don’t look like my hands. I suspect they will, though. Anyhow. Again. The backs of my hands. They look wrong. Why, I don’t know. They just do. Old, twisted, freckled and a bit withered. This is a bit nothingness, really. Writing about a sudden thought when looking down at one’s hands. My life is over, isn’t it? Luckily I have three rather splendid squawks to take up the mantle. All rather cleverer than me. The only meaning of life is more life.

Yes. There has been a lot of roflcat-ing recently, as reflected in the latest xkcd. Hell, even tried it, but found it harder than it looks to be funny, ironic or witty. Like I didn’t know.

At this point, I should finish and let you get on with your regularly scheduled lives.

Ginger head