Cup of tea, anyone? Coffee? What about a nice cup of DEBASER?
Current Debaser play count: 39. And I still can't figure out any of the words. Thankfully, its less embedded in my brain than it was yesterday. Plus I can't be arsed to type out DEBASER! all over the place. So instead I'll sing it to myself.
MOCKS: DAY ONE
In walks Thomas to the huge mock room, full of nervous looking people. He's confident. Ish. As long as nothing goes wrong, he feels that he can do well. He sits at his desk.
Problem number one. Who gets given the world's most wobbly desk in the history of the entire fucking desk industry? Thomas does. Seriously, it wobbled so much I nearly dropped my exquisite pencil. I was forced to rip a page out of calendar, fold it up and stick it under a table leg, and even that didn't help that much. Anyway, I hope that nothing important is happening in the middle of the term. I bet there's a free cookie and magic sale in the foyer, but I'll miss out because I was forced to rip out that particular page and use it to properly prop up my desk. Well done, desk industry.
Anyway, Thomas manages to solve the desk problem. He works through the double award paper, which turns out to be easier than expected. As Mike Younis (TOKEN) exquisitely put it:
"I spend ages revising ions and charge, and then they go and ask us why they couldn't transport charcoal across the country 200 years ago!"
Well, he said something LIKE that. I forget the details. Anyway. Thomas works through the paper like a good like Nazi. Gets through it in good time. Then we get onto the Triple award paper. Problem 2.
Here's the conversation between Thomas's Brain and itself.
Thomas's brain: Well, not bad. A bit tricky, but nothing I can't handle. Now onto the Triple Award paper.
(Thomas opens triple award paper and eyes first page)
Thomas's brain: Oh, shit.
(Thomas quickly closes triple award paper and buries head in hands)
Thomas's brain: Ok, calm down. Its probably not as confusing as it looks. Just open it slowly and have another look.
(Thomas slowly opens paper)
Thomas's brain: SHIT!
(Thomas quickly turns to the next page)
Thomas's brain: DOUBLE SHIT! Oh wait, I can do that one.
I couldn't really. But I filled in the paper. I used the time honoured tactic of "well I think I vaguely remember us doing something like this about a year and a half ago, so I am going to proceed with this totally random method that makes no sense." I also used the time honoured technique of "well, I'll choose the method that gets the nicest looking answer." In fact, it was the day for time honoured techniques, as I also used the time honoured technique of "if you don't know the answer, just throw as much random shit onto the page and hope that some of it is worth a few marks." Ah, the old shit throwing, how many marks have you gained me over the years.
So eventually, Chemistry over. Not a catastrophe. Wew. Then, break, and onto the ISCO tests. Well, the results, actually. ISCO tests - carreer aptitude tests. And would you believe it? I'm going to be a journalist! Or a broadcaster. Or an advertising guy. Or an educational psychologist. Or, bizarrely enough, a diplomat. Can anyone imagine me as a foreign diplomat? Imagine me meeting the Prime minister of France:
French guy: And may I present, the Prime Minister of France.
Me: Boo! Get a haircut frenchy!
Or something in that vein. Hilarious. I should be a sitcom writer. Actually, I would rather staple my eyeballs to a brick then throw the brick into a vat of vinegar than be a sitcom writer. Actually, what am I saying? It sounds fun. Oh well, I still lose my eyeballs.
And now for History. I was slightly more confident for this baby, as I had done a little revision. Well, as long as nothing went wrong.
Problem three: I was given the second most wobbly desk in the entire world. What was this, a conspiracy? Piss off Thomas day? Anyway, I still had my handy calendar. I hope nothing interesting is happening in the middle three weeks. Because that information is still on the floor of the hall. Sod's law, a flaming clown troupe will come to town. Bugger.
History was OK, except I sort of sank into a coma-style condition halfway through, when I just sat, stared at my paper, and spent a good five minutes thinking about my last birthday party. Oddly. Needless to say, when I woke up, there was a lot of very fast writing going on.
Problem four: My pen has a leek. My finger looks like I've been doing very dirty things to the Smurfs. Well, I'm sure they deserve it, blue little twats. Fucking Smurfs, always to happy and carefree. I cheered for that cool wizard guy, every day. At least he had a plan. Gargamel, that was his name. Yep, Lucia, you can add 'watches the Smurfs' to your list of things that is wrong with me, as well as jigsaw puzzles, Lizzy McGuire and the revision timetable.
I can't be bothered to write any more. Just space for two very important little messages:
1: Mr Clarke managed to drive a boating launch ONTO the landing stage and nearly slice up Miss Edwards with the propeller. Very smart, you would think, but he wasn't even sitting in it at the time! Mr Clarke: DUDE. I wish I was there. Well, not in that spot, a safe distance away.
2. DEBASER!
God Bless you, each and every one of you.
Except these people:
Ogg (you slimy git)
Bibby (I know it's your birthday, but there's no excuse for ripping a chunk of flesh out of the neck of the sweetest girl to walk the earth)
Cassie (just because)
Whoever invented Differentiation. Do you know how hard that thing is to learn in five minutes? I have to do all my Core Maths revision TONIGHT. I'm screwed. You wanker.
Paul and Marios: The thing with my little brother. Eww.
Kill zombies with... a wobbly desk. Annoy them to death.
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