Just when you thought Roller Blades were out of fashion...

I wrote this for the newly made Edge Hill University magazine, I know it's not the best in the world but I thought I would put it on here too for anyone bothered to read it.

Picture it, a perfect late summer day, temperatures pushing 30, not a cloud blemishing the startlingly blue sky. You’re sat on the banks of the Rhine in state capital Düsseldorf, basking in the afternoon sun, pleasantly surprised at this unseasonal weather. The soaring behemoth of the 240m tall Rhine Tower to the left, the sprawling, pristine ‘Old Town’ to your right, nothing could spoil your day.  But then you here it, a curious yet familiar rumbling seemingly dragged up from somewhere deep within your childhood, you look up, gasp.  You’ve been ripped from the glory of the day, torn asunder from the pristine tranquillity of summer stretching it’s merciful limbs into usually uncharted territory. And why? For what? Are your eyes deceiving you? Can it be? You better believe it! That’s right, it’s a troupe of roller bladders out for a Sunday skate, 5, 6, 7, too many to count. Fully grown adults, resplendent in knee pads and crash helmets, safety always comes first when you’re hitting the dizzying heights of 10MPH. Always.

Why am I in Germany? Am I a German? No. Have I been exiled by some unfortunate circumstance resulting in my being forced to live here? Wrong again. I am here (obviously) to study English. That’s right, laugh it up, I’m used to it. It’s a common thing in Germany that after introducing yourself, you proceed to enquire about the studies of the other person. In recent weeks this has roused within me a cynical smile, a knowing laugh. I know what’s coming.

Herr Klinsmann:  “So hey, Shaun, what are you studying?”

Me: “English Linguistics”

Herr Klinsmann:  “hahaha, no really, what are you studying?”

This is always greeted with a protestation of my seriousness, yes I do indeed study English linguistics in Germany which in turn is greeted by the remark that “well you must be the best in the class” as if the only requirement of being a good linguist was to be a native speaker!!!

 I can assure that it is most definitely not!

I should explain, I don’t actually live in bustling Düsseldorf, or the equally appealing Cologne, not even Aachen with its wonderful medieval cathedral. I live in Essen, coal mining central of Germany and every bit as beautiful as the rock on which it was built. Heavily bombed during World War 2, Essen, and the majority of the surrounding towns, were rebuilt in a bland monotonous style. Where are the buildings Germany is famous for? This could be a city in any country in the world.

And yet, having said that, I don’t dislike my adopted home. I don’t dislike eating sausage on a regular basis. I don’t dislike beer at 80cents a pint. And most importantly, above all else, I can honestly say that nothing in Germany brings me more pleasure than the humble double cheeseburger being renamed as the all conquering, world beating, face melting delight that is the McfuckingDouble.

In addition to opening my eyes to the wonder of living in a different country, waking up every day in a different time zone and learning a new language, Germany has given me a new found appreciation for my home city, Liverpool.

For me it is easy to draw comparisons between the 2 industrial cities of Essen and Liverpool, both based on famous rivers. There is however, no doubt in my mind which one is king.

Even now as I write, gazing up I can see a postcard of Liverpool’s famous 3 graces, perfectly offset against a backdrop of dazzlingly blue sky, straddled below by the Liverpool-Leeds canal. When I was home over Christmas, stepping off the train at Lime Street, setting my first foot on Scouse soil for 3 months I was greeted with a sound that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, a sound that said I’m home. What was that sound? The raucous crys from a flock of Seagulls? A timeless classic from The Beatles droning in the station? Not quite, one young Scouser to another “ey lad, you gorra fuckin bifta?”

It was good to be back. The city itself left me in awe, never had I truly appreciated the grandeur and majesty of Liverpool’s historic city centre.  Just to stop for a second and crane your head upwards is to catch sight of an out of the way marvel.

I am aware that this has descended into a kind of Anglo-Germanic ramble about my past 5 months. I’ll sum it up. I’m an exchange student living in Germany and I like Liverpool but I never used to.

I prefer to think of myself as Edge Hill’s ambassador to the world. Maybe.

Onur

My flat"mate".

Pathetic whistle and shuffling slippers.
The very sounds are enough to entice me into madness and, oddly enough, give me a slight chill within.

What does he do? Where does he do it? I have no idea!

Pigeon-like features and pigeon-like gait, bobbin head and beaky nose.

Dirty kitchen with pots and pans, gathering mold. He doesn't even give a fuck.
Week-old pasta rotting in its pot, coffee in the sink went the same way last week. He took my spoon, the one with the rabbit on I got from Ikea, why the fuck would he want that? He has loads of spoons.

Filthy bathroom too, dirty floor, get back at him by using his Head & Shoulders.
Finally bought a mop today. Use it.

Comes home from (work?) somewhere, slams the door, awful music, computer nerd, has his own website "under construction"

So why does he send a chill up my spine? A man of pathetic attributes.

Quite simply, I "borrowed" his internet for a few days without his knowledge (having your name and date of birth for a password is asking for trouble) he subsequently found out and blocked my computer from his wifi.
Not a word was spoken about this.

November 1st comes and there's a note on my kitchen table  

Leads to my one and only conversation with him.

Me "have you got a bill"
Onur "No"
Me "ok"

10 minutes later he produces a bill of unidentifiable origin (mein Deutsch ist nicht sehr gut!!) so for ease I agree to pay.
But no, I get thinking later on, the numbers didn't add up, so I refused to pay, I didn't tell him of course. Over a month later i still haven't coughed up the cash. Cunt.

And once again, not a word from the man himself, no questions, no interactions. Nada.

The longer this radio silence went on, the more I began to wonder, whats he thinking? What does he think of me? The internet stealing, no electricity paying guy from England who never talks to me. Was he planning anything? I had no idea.

Then came the dream. My room, my bed. I was asleep, a dream within a dream. In walks Onur, turns on my light, I pretend to be asleep, hope he goes away. Seconds tick by and the light remains on so I crack a lid to check. He sees me and I see him, the light goes off.
I sit up, or try, I can't talk and I can't move my arms. He's coming closer, humming, mumbling, closer. I mght not have paid for electricity but one way or another, he'll make me pay. Fuck.
My eyes spring open, my heart pounds. Was it real? Was it a dream? I hope for the latter and get up to check the door is locked, it is. Relief, but not, I can't sleep, I can hear him shuffling.

Half an hour later I drift off, but the memory? It's drifting nowhere.

Fear, irrational or not, is fear. Would someone really enter another persons locked room at night over an unpaid electricity bill of 28€? I highly doubt it but there is no limit to the imagination of an idle mind, given time to think, to construe, to create.

Here's to hoping I return after Christmas to no more Onur!

People I don't like.

I've felt a fair amount of disdain towards certain individuals lately, and decided to vent some frustration in the form of a long forgotten blog.

Most likely this is down to my usual high intolerance for meeting new people and being in social situations over which i have no control, and the fact that over my past 5 and a half weeks in Germany I have made, for myself, an unusually high number of friends and thus my natural capacity for dislike has become somewhat subdued and mellow.

That was however until recently.

A female, English, has appeared in the scene, uninvited and unwanted with the apparent notion that as we are both English then of course we should both be friends. Oh how wrong you are!!!

Said female is nothing to be desired, short, unnatractive, lacking in almost every department, features reminiscent of those belonging to a troll doll, she is, as they say in the art business, no oil painting. This alone would not be bad enough to rile me into an (admittedly ott) tirade about her, no, what prompts this is her constant appearance and skulking at events in which i am involved, whether it be a lecture, day out or a mere passing in the corridor, whenever i think i have managed to shake her off, BOOM, there she is in her holy magnificent unglory.

In these situations I can feel her, eyes burning into my very sole, willing me to her and the inevitable "hey I'm english too, lets be friends based only on that and the fact that we have absolutely nothing else in common apart from the fact that we both hate me"

On a lighter note, i seem to have inadvertently acquired myself a stalker of more sinister nature. Marlon, the white German with a dead look in his eyes, framed by a mane of greasy locks.
Never seen out of his trademark brown suede suit jacket and green polo shirt, Marlon is a creep of the higest order.
Made even worse by the fact that he has a desire to teach me German, not even his poor english is enough to disuade him from the task of teaching a novice his mother tongue. Marlon is persistent in his creepiness and his eyes searching over me, undoubtedly wondering if it's true that human meat is as good as people say.

It's hard work being nice all the time, just needed to vent a bit of frustation!!

Sure I used to have a blog.

Fuck, not done one of these bad boys for a long time, the pressure to be consistently "funny" got to me.

Thought I'd start doing my hugely popular blog again with my (and probably a lot of other people's) view on the elderly.

In general it might seem that getting old, and by old I mean pension age up, not the stupid "ohhhh I remember back when I was in 6th form and now I've just finished my first year of uni" kind of old, is shit. And for the most part it most definitely is.

However, fear not, there are at least some benefits to getting old probably. Although definitely not a benefit is being the subject of idiotic questions regarding little puzzles to keep your mind active, from the always insightful Susan Ma: Skincare specialst.

I feel, and I'm sure you'll agree, that the best part of reaching a certain age is the ability to pass wind loudly and copiously. This convulsion of the bowels can be greeted by others in two (three) ways;

1. Being laughed off by relatives "good old Grandad and his farting"
2. Being ignored and people upon hearing it secretly hoping that you know what you've just done and that it isn't the first step on the steady decline to being placed in an expensive care home or, if your family is particularly nice a surprise holiday to Switzerland. What is it the Swiss love so much again?
3. Being called a dirty old bastard whilst loudly pissing yourself, often literally.

Another advantage of getting older is being able to say pretty much whatever the fuck want and having nobody care about it.Just imagine if Mel Gibson was a 70 year old man who called female police officers sugar tits, it'd be hilarious, well, almost as hilarious and if 70 year old Mel said this stuff he wouldn't have to shove his hand up a beaver's arse hole.

Telling youth what it was like in your day, despite the fact that your day (as in now) was pretty crap. 'Your day' will always be better than the future.

Possibly the thing I'm looking forward to most however, is being able to wear a suit each and everyday of my senile life. Alzheimer's here I come!!!


So getting old, it seems, would lead to you having the time of your life. Never mind memory loss, incontinence, loss of height, memory loss, being treated like a child and memory loss it's the thought that counts.

Oh dear, Ormskirk...

I fancy a bit of a change in direction from the usual bollocks and will therefore be writing a short review of Ormskirk.

Ormskirk brands itself as an historic market town, loved by the elderly and lovers of tat alike. I prefer my own tag-line; Ormskirk - where the old come to die.  The amount of elderly people in this town is second to none, they potter about aimlessly, milling and loitering, they have nothing to do and have been tricked into thinking Ormskirk is home to a lively bustling community full of like minded old codgers looking for the final thrill before popping their cobweb encrusted cloggs.

6 months now have I endured Ormskirk, and in those 6 months I have seen barely a soul who can claim to be middle aged. The needle swings wildly from pensioner to uni student, with seemingly no middle ground. This provides a wonderful mix of shuffling shopping bags and sniffling uni lags.

The main high street (for main read only) slicing through the heart of the town is one residents are surely proud of. Retaile outlets such as B ock us er (Blockbuster) leave one wondering if there is also a shop tucked away in some, thankfully, long-forgotten Ormskirk alleyway called LBT selling all the videos they steal from the
B ock us er returns bin. I hope so!

The town boast a huge array of ba... oh wait, no it doesn't. There is 3 bars in Ormskirk of varying quality, ranging from shit to errr, shit, granted it's a small town so I suppose it's off the hook in this respect.

A problem I have with the locals, Ormskirkians I believe, is their apparent lack of identity, screaming out to be included as Scouse, the L39ers fall somewhat short.

My major problem however is its approximity to hellhole of a town, the pie-eating, rugby-playing, JJB-wearing, hair gelling, jabroni bashing dump that is Wigan.

In a nothing town I suppose it is rather apt that on certain days revelers are greeted with the heady, pungent aroma of freshly laid manure as they step off the train into the overcrowded, overcared, overoldpersoned blight on the map that is Ormskirk; Historic market town.


Just as a quick side note, I like the uni, just not the town. Poor showing Ormskirk, better look next time.

What an angry day, my first blog in ages and I take a new direction and heap scorn on my university home!

What the future will be like.

Ahhhhh The Future, a wondrous place for one and all. Probably. What will it be like? Who could possibly say. Until now nobody, however, that is all about to change as we watch the shroud of mystery surrounding the future become engulfed in the fire of knowledge!

I am about to impart on you the wisdom of literally minutes of detailed thinking about what The future will be like, 50 years precisely.

So, 50 years from now is the future a brave new world or one of despair and shit. Well I can now tell you that thanks to a Live Aid style rap collaboration from heavyweights of the genre LL Cool J, Ja Rule and DJ Jazzy Jeff World War III was averted and all 3 were covered in liquid gold and made into an extravagant statue placed at the top of Mt. Everest. Maybe. Anyway, that load of bollocks meant that the world was saved for whole nother day so we can get on with how it's gonna be fruity and such.

One of the great mysteries regarding the future is what will music be like. I believe that in honour of the fallen rap heroes we'll endure a period of about 20 years when all music bar old school rap and duets with Ashanti are banned. This will also be a time of parachute pants and large baggy shirts made popular by 90's black people. After the roaring 20's and 30's people will soon tire of the lyrical stylings of such rap luminaries as Funky D and his oh so treacherous 3 and music then progresses, soon after this thanks to new technology invented Marvin Gaye and Tami Tarrell are returned from the dead and there is no music apart from those two. Naturally everybody is happy forever because as we all know, It Takes Two, Baby.

After spending his teenage years teaching his friends everything he knows about "The Birds", Michael Myers realises he has a gift of epic proportions and must share it with everybody, thus becoming a real life Hitch. Soon enough, Britains men all get the girl of their dreams and Senior Michael opens up his own school in order to train up a new batch of slightly-less-good-than-him replica Hitches. These Hitches, along with the original, travel the world schooling men everywhere and pretty soon everyone gets what they want when they want. Every man in the world is happy, fat men pull Cameron Diaz and ugly women are bred out of existence due to selective breeding, men however come to grow incredibly fat an complacent as they know that thanks to the growing influence of Myers they no longer have to make an effort for women. This whole saga has a terrible effect on the world leading many to liken Mr. Myers to a Scouse Hitler, probably due to the fact that he hasn't had a shave since 2018. Either that or he told me to say he became a real life bitch. Fab (clicks fingers) U (clicks fingers) Lous. Miaoooooooooooooooooooow.


The star of Louis Spence will, unsurprisingly continue to rise higher and higher. By 2029 Louis has won 12 Oscars for his troubles and it has become law that he must appear for a minimum of 10 minutes in every single film ever made. Existing films are re-edited to include Louis, often in a cat suit, in various scenes. My personal favourite was when he appeared in the Titanic, lurking behind the two heroes in the front of the boat scene.

A major thing regarding the future is how the current generation will be as old people. Will we all wake up one day and suddenly have a penchant for cardigans and flat caps? Will women with once illustriously fine heads of hair sit down one day and think "You know what? I've always wanted a perm" The answer is of course yes. Old people are not supposed to be stylish, although we do still all go out clubbing and junk, silver foxes on the prowl. Only difference is that in the future young women are more attracted to older men which is where Michael "Hitch" Myers comes in.

Also in the future everyone eats GM food and cows give birth to steaks and pigs shit out sausages that taste like bacon. Its a wonderful world. On the downside though genetic modification makes plants that eat cats so there's no cats in the future. Cats are gay anyway so it's ok.

Thus ends my awful ramble but don't despair, I have a few more blogworthy ideas coming up. They'll be shit too I cant wait.

How to have a nice time on a night out!

Time after time people come up to me proclaiming "Shaun, I just can't bear it anymore, when I have myself a night out I always get the feeling that my behaviour just isn't as unscrupulous as it could be. Please teach me oh mighty one". So I have decided to impart a few pearls of wisdom, drop some knowledge on multiple asses and school you in the art of behaving yourself on a night out as well as one or two tips and tricks to set you on your way. You lucky, lucky people you.

As we all know, the best nights out always start in the bathroom, so that's where the guide begins.

Shower, shave, shit. It's all about the three S's. But it isn't really, remember guys, girls love nothing more than a shockingly bad beard, gets those legs a-quivering every time without fail. The worse the beard the hotter the girl. Scientific fact.


So, now the formalities are out of the way we've hit the town drinks are flowing and a song comes on that you think is jolly good. What do you do? Do you dance? Can you dance? Of course you can't, so don't simple as.
Even if you think you're a budding Jacko please spare us. If you really must dance obey the golden rule. Do not move your feet. A shake of the hips is as mobile as you should get, the key to "dancing" (moving) just enough so as not to seem like a tit is all in the hands. Wave them about a little bit and, dare I say it, thrust them in the air like you just don't care. Party animal, much?


When you are in a pub you must never, ever, ever, EVER use the jukebox. No matter how much you think the entire contents of whatever late night alcoholic beverage dispensation establishment you've rocked up at will enjoy the new track by James Blunt they most assuredly will not! You'd be best advised to grin and bear the sickly sweet pop music and generic hip hop tracks. if, by some miracle you do happen to stumble across a bar that actually has taste in music, I'm talking nothing but Motown, baby, then please refrain from informing your friends that you know and love every song that comes on. They really don't care.


Barmaids, 9 times out of 10, do not want to be lecherously chatted up by the clientele. They've heard it all before, you could be legendary ladies man Peter Andre for all they care. You're wasting your time and you're wasting theirs.


Similar to dance, however just about important enough to warrant its own paragraph, is the art of "doing the robot". No matter how could you think your version of the ever popular dance is, there will always be someone who can do it much better than you. If you really can't help yourself then at least wait for the strobe lights to come on, strobe lights make everything cool and even the most feeble of robots can seem impressive under such illumination.



Enough of the negativity for now. Wearing a nice suit to town is a sure way to have a great night. It gives you an air of being possibly rich, making you attractive to the female women and to the men you come across you could possibly be James Bond or shit. An added bonus to wearing a suit is that you can spend all night ordering cocktails in elaborate glasses with olives in and fancy liqueurs. You can get drunk in styleeeeeee



There's probably a lot more stuff I could whack on the end of here but it's getting jolly late and I haven't done a blog for ages so I'm saving the good stuff for a rainy day.


Have a nice time y'all!!!