RocknRolla.

Went Priory Thursday night mate. I have never hugged so many people in such a short space of time. I re-united with some "Asian blud", I saw friends that I haven't seen in a good while, and in even in my state of soberness, it was quite fucking brilliant.

Nothing reminds you more of being home than when you see the faces of the people that really paint the image of "home".

I'm not going to do a huge blog on the depths of being at home in relation to the spiritual growth associated with being at university. What I will do is show you something I created with my bare/very soft hands.

I don't do a lot, but what I do-do from time to time is write in my little black book.

Now now, I don't write peoples names however, I do write little snippets of my imagination and creative mumbling.

Below.

The Battle of Man

I stare at my feet below me,

Whilst the battle of men shakes the floor above me.

The angels cry fire and ash, whilst the brotherhood of men laugh in cold steel and doom.

"Conflict is all we are good for" the floor tells me.

"I do not know what else I can do to stop this" my feet remain still.

"Have you tried running?" asked the floor.

"No, but I did beg for salvation"

The floor laughs.

"Men run when they should walk, and walk when they should remain perfectly still"

"I am still" I say.

There is silence.

"No you are sat down, there is a difference. Stand up, do not move and face your destiny"

I stand up and do absolutely nothing.

My name is history.

New start.

Although this is my first post, this is not however my first ever blog.

Alas I have written six previous posts on another website, I'm only writing on here because it is easier to follow apparently. This then raises the question, why would you want people to follow your blog?

Better yet, why bother writing blogs at all?

I mean I don't get an increasing bank account from doing this (shame) and I certainly don't have to do this for a living, so why write on the internet?

Perhaps it is because I genuinely want people to read what I write, to see what I hear and hear what I see.

Pointless last sentence, but you know it sounded very sexy indeed.

Before we enter foreplay, let us start with the truth. Now the truth is boring, most of us choose lies because they sound better, but the truth truly can set you free.

I'm poor at maths.
I'm poor at science.
I speak too fast.
My grammar is bad.
I am rather crude.
I'm not modest.
I truly believe I can write.

That is why I write, so I can fulfill my egotistical needs. I feel a sad little sense of joy when I get positive reviews on my writing. That certainly paints a dire portrait of my personality.

None the less, you came to be entertained, and entertained you shall be. Although it lacks in direction, my life is certainly very eventful, at least it is when I talk about it anyway.

Home

I call it Doncaster.

You call it crap hole with more than necessary amount of under class fuck monkeys.

Either way, our roots make us what we are.Thankfully I am not a under class fuck monkey. I have been back a week and a bit and I must say I am starting to miss uni. I mean I have nothing to do here.

Please do not assume I have an eventful life at uni, I don't do much there and I don't do much here, the difference is that I have to get a bus to do nothing here. The one thing I miss the most about uni is the amount of students that roam the streets.

In Donny the dole walkers roam the street. The following is one of many don-ecdotes (doncaster related anecdotes) that happened today in the interchange.

Scene 1

We see a typical white chav male and equally fucking useless chav female. Whilst waiting for the bus they decide to tell anyone walking past that their shoes are untied. The majority ignore them, the few that do check their lace status are greeted by idiotic monkey laughter.

Cunts.

If it isn't lace abuse, its racial abuse, weight abuse, age abuse, hair abuse, what- clothes -you- wear -and -much- of -a -sweaty- you- look -abuse.

Scene 2

Me and my chum Daniel are waiting for a late bus, story of my life. We shake our head in disgust at the dole monkeys, and surprisingly we go a long period of time before the abuse is directed at us. I mean they disregard age or race and sex, so at least their abuse isn't biased.

"Oi you. Oi you. Grunt grunt."

I look at them.

"Barber is up there mate, up there yeah."

I say nothing, they probably assume I can't speak English.

"Straight up there take a left mate, you know to get a hair cut, hair cut."

The male monkey pretends to cut his hair to fully prove his point.

"Oh ok." I say.

I look to Daniel in disgust, I mean his hair is quite long too.

"Did you say fuck off?"

I look back up.

"Did you tell me to fuck off?" Monkey - chav- scum- fuck nose takes a swag of white star cider, hidden in a plastic bag.

Err no." says sexy long haired boy.

I discover later that the cretin is from Rotherham, and he finds another rat friend who is also from Rotherham. They both get on the bus, sit upstairs, back seat of course. They press the bell and don't get off the bus.

They laugh.

We cry.

Nothing changes.

Fuck Doncaster.

I love thee like a wet pillow, you are only good for so long...

M x