Auld Lang 'Ockey

Guess what, friends: I attended a sporting event this weekend. Despite my illustrious sporting history, it may shock you to learn that I don't actually attend all that many organised athletic occasions, just as you'll be disappointed to hear that I haven't been to Mass in a while. Anyway, the last time I went to a game or match or throw-down or whatever was when my father forced me to sit through a match between Liverpool and some people who weren't Liverpool. After that two hours of my life that I will never get back, I swore that I would live each minute to the fullest and thus never watch a bunch of fully-grown adults chase an arbitrary object in pursuit of points that have no effect ever again after that game is finished.
So what tempted me back? All the cool kids were doing it.
The cool kids in question happened to be these guys:

Colm the column is really the glue who holds us together.

That's (from left to right): Naomi, Nicole and John. I first encountered (and blogged about) them at the conference in Amiens but as far as I know this is the first time they've actually been documented on camera and so, naturally, the picture's pretty blurry and we can't be certain it's not just a grizzly standing on its hindlegs.
The above photo was taken in Amiens, where the Ice Hockey match was, at the ferris wheel of the Christmas Market, for which you pay four euros and boy, do you get your money's worth: by the third go-round, we were starting to get sick of each other; by the fifth, factions had formed; by the eigth, there was an actual murder scene. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

After that, we did some exploring of Amiens and its various Christmas wonders, which included but were not limited to, a christmas display with some questionable upside-down cookie on fairy action:

In this much clearer photo, you can clearly see that they're actually just a weather balloon.

Another with some horrible racial politics:

The brown bear is being hidden from view in the box, while the white bear is allowed to frolic free.

And some really freakish animatronic Christmas trees which, when photographed, were not there. I'm pretty sure one of them followed me home.

Then it was time for the hockey game. It was actually very fun: they fight more than in football and this is awesome they're always carrying potential weapons in the form of massive bladed clubs. Plus, they can practically teleport from one end of the rink to the other using the power of physics and ice, so it felt like they moved much faster. Honestly, the most difficult part was trying to decipher what the yobs-cum-cheerleaders to our left were chanting: at one point, it was 'I love you baby' with what I presume were midly-altered lyrics; at another they seemed to be singing 'Auld Lang Syne' and I have no idea what they think that song's about; then, they moved onto just chanting what sounded like 'hockeys!'. Plural. We eventually deciphered that the goalie's name was the incredibly French 'O'Keith', which is basically homonymous with 'hockeys' said in a French accent.

After this, we went for drinks with Alberto, with whom John and I had stayed last time we were in Amiens, and who was very graciously putting us all up, even if it meant he had to sleep on the floor (I promise, mother, I offered to take this bullet, but he insisted). While drinking, I discovered two new cocktails which I just adore: the first is a brass monkey, which is just a banana milkshake with kahlua and the second is a strawberry daiquiri which is like grenardine but alcoholic. The next morning, I wasn't so much hungover as I was having sugar withdrawal symptoms.
After this, we retired to bed and I was sharing with John and yet again I didn't sleep-punch him. I think we can now safely say I'm cured and can see my teddy bear again. Oh, Snowy, how I've missed you.

Toddlers and Lighting Technicians

I'm applying for jobs, because there's now only five months until my current one ends and it took much longer than that to get this position. It's annoying, because the time elapsed between applying to work for the British Council and starting the work far, far outstretches the amount of time I will be working for them. I'd kind of like to be paid in retrospect.
That's not going to happen.
Anyway, job applications mean not only updating the old Curriculum Vitae but also writing personal statements, cover letters and just general boilerplate. I actually have to admit a slight passion for writing about myself (imagine that); especially when I get to make it sound like my own Wikipedia article. Case in point:

I am an active dramatist, humorist, journalist and poet.

I actually wrote that in an application yesterday. I guess what I enjoy about writing such things is the opportunity it affords me to pomp myself up: in certain circumstances in social interactions, we are allowed to admit to a particular strength or flourish that we believe we possess. However, more than one at a time and what was once confidence begins to feel like boasting or, worse, arrogance. I'm not saying I want a society where everyone is suddenly allowed to go around declaring themself God's gift or even just a particularly adept human being- I've spent too much time around toddlers and lighting technicians to know how irritating that gets- but I do wish that my parents hadn't instilled in me such a disdain for pomp. I wish I knew how to take a compliment, which is not something I was ever taught, despite doubtless being praised far too much as a child. See? I don't feel like I can even write about this subject without throwing in a healthy dose of self-deprecation just to show that I'm not arrogant.
I think arrogance and dullness were the two things I was raised to be most vigilant for: I remember very clearly my mother telling me I was being boring and to stop talking if no one wanted to listen to what I had to say. And I can recall word for word Mrs. Sharpe berating me for boasting. The thing is, I know that a lot of contemporary acquaintances will be rolling their eyes as they read this, and muttering how I've never seemed too bothered about being tedious or concieted, and I feel I have to acknowledge this because otherwise I'm not admitting the flaws that I have.
I feel I'd be a lot happier if I didn't care about such things. Certainly, I'd be less self-conscious and that could only be a good thing (yet again, I feel compelled to acknowledge the folks who would say I've never been conscious of anything in my life and to simultaneously acknowledge that constantly acknowledging these things is boring for you to read). I spend almost all my social interactions, except those with the people around whom I'm absolutely, completely comfortable wondering if I'm holding up my end of the conversation, if I'm coming across as too self-interested or banal and if the other person has picked up on the fact that only half my brain is dedicated to this conversation because the other half is desperately monitoring my even action.
I don't know why I'm writing about this, other than writing my personal statement made me pensive and I haven't updated this thing in a while. I don't believe there's an answer to this, other than alcohol- although that doesn't really silence my self-conscious side so much as take its hands away from the reins of my body and mouth. I also now feel that I must mention that I don't dare think I'm unique in this situation: although, like a lot of middle-class children, I was always told that I was special, I was somehow also simultaneously discouraged from believing this.
How does that even work?

Honey Badger

I can't sleep. A fire alarm just went off, but honestly I was awake before: naturally, this sleepless night before a full day of work follows a whole fortnight when I didn't have to work and therefore could sleep a full ten hours with no preparation or prevarication. I imagine this is no coincidence: the knowledge that I have to be up in the morning for some reason makes me wary to sleep now, as though I fear that, like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral, I might overshoot the mark and might as well go round the horn, the long way around.
Is it worry that's preventing restfulness? That seems ridiculous. Honestly, this insomnia far outweighs in seriousness any other niggle that might prey on my mind. I think back to a documentary I watched at the beginning of the holiday that has now come to a rather damp squib of a close with this bout of listlessness about Honey Badgers and how they tackle all their problems head on with a grand display of insouciance and casual violence. Were I a Honey Badger, I'd use this extra night alloted to me to go piss off some snakes, steal some food from a pride of lions or have weird, hurty sex in a hole I dug. Instead, I'm an omphaloskeptic narcissist, so I shall blog my time away.

I never made it to Berlin this halfterm, as was my original plan, but I did go to Paris, Amsterdam and Brussels.

PARIS

I spent two days in Gay Paris, as it was Dani's birthday and I wanted to repay her for the marvellous celebration she gave me. The theme for the party was 'Glam Rock Pirates', so naturally I dressed like this:

It was while in Paris, staying with Dani's friends Matt and Dave, that I watched the documentary which gave us the title for this post as well as the incredibly unnecessary opening paragraph.
After the party, Matt and I, as well as a new acquaintance named Cordelia, and two Italians whose names I sadly never caught, went for drinks. The reason I never got their names was that the bar we went to was so loud that we couldn't hear each other talk. This lead to Matt proposing a rather novel form of conversation wherein we wrote to each other while seated at the same table: interestingly, this elevated the talk above the level of idle chittero chattero that one would expect from such loose acquaintanceships and meant we learnt quite intimate, fascinating details about each other (our greatest non-physical fears, when we stopped considering our parents' house home) in a very short time. I don't know why physically writing our thoughts made us more prone to divulge information, but the effect was palpable and incredibly liberating.

The next day, I looked around Notre Dame

Through the rooves and gables I can see them!

Naturally singing 'Hellfire' to myself all the while. This bought home to me something I had suspected for a while: my appreciation of aesthetic beauty has become much greater as I've grown older. I used to disdain looking around churches or my parents' frequent suggestion of simply strolling around and looking at what was around me. But that's exactly what I did, and I was so overwhelmed I even tried my incredibly inexperienced hand at some photography:

Admittedly, very few locations on earth offer up such levels of aesthetic pleasure as Paris, but it definitely contrasts to the first time I visited the city when I was disgusted that the plan was to just look around.
After this, I returned to the same poetry-reading tea party that I attended on my birthday and then caught the train home. It was a great weekend.

AMSTERDAM

On a whim, realising I would be all alone with killer clowns in Laon, I decided to soujourn for a week in 'The Dammage' as Anna calls it. Booking my train twelve hours before it left,  I naturally was left with Slim Pickin's for accommodation and decided to go with a hostel on the beach, an hour outside the city limits.
It proved to be the right choice: I met so many cool people, it made the week so much less lonely and allowed me to relax about trying to see everything- if I was spending time with others, I didn't have to find something for myself to do. I'm not gonna detail everything that happened in that city, because I genuinely don't have words for some of the experiences and also I want to find gainful employment in the future (hint: 'special' cake was involved). Here is just some general life advice for you all: don't go through Daylights Savings time while high. It hurts. And here's some pictures I took, just so this paragraph doesn't feel left out:

The fact that they still had C&A there blew my mind more than any substances I ingested.

BRUSSELS

I spent a couple of days in Brussels because the delightful Grace was visiting there and I wanted my life to be the kind where I meet my friends in capital cities of countries where neither of us live. Also, Grace is tout sweet and I hadn't seen her in too long. We went to the Brussels Comic Strip museum where we learned how Smurfs live:

And also about their depictions in times gone by:

While there, I also met up with Jonathan, whom I hadn't seen or spoken to in three years. Catching up with someone after such an amount of time is inevitably a strange experience, as you're reminded simultaneously how much and how little you've done in that amount of time. Jonathan took me to the Delirium Cafe, which boasts over 3000 beers, and so I finally found a brew that I actually enjoy, and so now I only have to journey 100 miles to drink 'a real man's drink' in the words of my father and every other macho douchebag I've ever encountered.

Apart from the above journeying, I spent the rest of the holiday watching films and writing creatively. It was a lovely break and I only wish it hadn't come so early after I started my job: oh well, only 50 days to Christmas.