Oh. Em. Gee.

Sex in a BOTTLE.
Fitness on WHEELS.
Godlyness on a STICK (like Jesus)
Hotness in a blue ribbon.

My new revision timetable is here.

Now, many of you may know about my previous revision timetable. It was a small, ugly sonofabitch full of nasty black lines, all black and white and so SO out of FASHION. In fact, I showed it to this man:



... and he said that it was 'old fashioned, tacky, and so not you'. So I suspended him from a bridge by his hair and left the vultures to pick his carcass. The old timetable may have been bad, but I made it, and therefore its about 10000x better than all the fake MDF oak-effect swedish victorian dining tables in the shape of Queen Victoria, decorated with dried leaves and bits of metal found on the street that HE can come up with, the long haired tit. Hahah, Mr Lewlynn (I'm not even going to pretend I know or care how to spell it) Bowen, you have just reached your 16th minute of fame. RINSED.

Um.

But my NEW revision timetable... ho boy. Lets just say, it's SO hot, it is literally in danger of spontaneously combusting. I have a small team of firemen on hand, just to douse it down in case the edges start smouldering. It's a 24 hour job. The heat eminating from this baby is so hot, it's melted their boots and they have to dress in an outfit made of reinforced diamond-compound. It's that damn hot.

Firstly, it's A3 sized. ITS BIG. Bigger than King Kong's cock. Just after jumping into a warm bath. Full of naked lady-monkeys. Attached to my wall now, it glows with a huge spiritual power of its own. I cower under its gaze. I am not worthy to revise properly from it. And do you know how many bits of Blu-Tak were needed to properly affix it to said wall? Not one. Not two. Not, indeed four. Six. No, you're not hearing incorrectly. I did, indeed, say that. SIX motherfuckin' bits of Blu-Tak were needed to attach this daddy to the wall. SIX. Thats like, fuckin', TEN. Nearly. Christ.

And also, it has COLOURS. That immeditately raises it above the level of your common or garden NORMAL revision timetable.
This mofo is in white, black, pink, green AND yellow. All the colours of the rainbow. And there's even a key, which I actually
cut off when I was reducing my timetable into a size that would allow its manliness to reverberate around my room without
taking out the entire house in one sonic boom of manly awesomeness (Oli Gill did this once. After doing 783 sit ups in the
space of a minute, he ate a hunk of steak and flexed his biceps, while growing a huge beard and, in doing so, levelled most of Teddington).

Christ, this song is sending me into a deep coma. It's the Ryan Adams version of 'Wonderwall' (it was on the boatie CD), and so far I've listened to it 7 times on loop AND ITS SO DAMN RELAXING. No, wait, I just looked at my timetable and I'm ready to single-handedly take down the armies of the Third Reich, armed only with a baseball bat, a cigar, and a set of manly wise-cracks.

This timetable, though, is so amazing. It's the sort of timetable GOD would have. Exept without the subjects. Instead, he'd have stuff like:

Create world
Do lots of fancy miracles
Stop doing stuff
Have a rest
Don't show face to world
Pretend that you don't care that nobody believes in you
Stop doing stuff
Appear on some fried toast in Texas; pretend that this makes up for 1000 years of non-miracles
Accept that you have actually been replaced by Jerry Springer
Lose interest
Disappear
Get replaced by McGod, a red demon with a halo of two arches, serving out salads from one hand, and liver cancer from the other

Yeah, man. This is God's revision timetable.
I'm still not planning on revising properly, though.

What do horny cows do on rowing camps? Moosterbate!

Oh, bollicks.

Show me the house of the guy who invented AS level core mathematics.

*Fires rocket launcher*



HA HA. Not so smart now, are you, you big faced path analysing jerk. Grumphle. I just did an AS maths paper. WEW. Even when I try to cheat and look up how to do it, its still fucking impossible. Find the earliest finish time and the latest start time, take them away to find a, uh, float, and WHO CARES. None of it matters. Its all fucking POINTLESS. I mean, it would be nice if I even had a fucking clue what I was meant to be achieving with flows. What is a flow? Why? Who? I DON'T KNOW/CARE.

I actually think that my brain is chemically unable to comprehend AS maths. And this is decision maths, the easier subject (my 69% exam). I'm too scared to even LOOK at the core maths paper (a smooth 36% in the exam). This entire subject just makes me want to cry tears of pain. Why, oh WHY, did they decide that, as I was good enough to do GCSE maths early, AS maths was in my grasp? It is quite plainly NOT.

And things weren't made easier that my calculator died halfway throught the paper. Well, I say died. Actually, I HAD already stabbed it in the circuit board with a compass in a fit of pique. Then it started to fade halfway though a calculation I was doing (I had actually no idea what I was going to achieve with the answer I got at the end), so I smashed it on the desk. The screen sort of fell out of place, and now when I turn it on the screen sort of goes wavy and nothing happens. Sob. So, I'll be taking it apart later on to see whats going on inside. Then I'll be smashing the remains with a hammer. Woopers.

Um. *had an idea* MAYBE THERE WILL BE A GOOD EXPLANATION ON BBC BITESIZE. Come on, BBC, you can save my life here... no, no you can't. WHY is there no decision maths stuff ANYWHERE? I'm so fucked.

*looks sad*

What subject to cows hate? Mooths.

Hampsterland revisited

I cannot be arsed, really. Ouch. ROCK LOBSTER.
So here are just some random points from each day.
Ok, deep breath, release, and GO:

Saturday
We saw a bat in the car park.
I didn't want to go. I considered purposefully falling down the stairs when I got up, in order to break something small and relatively painless ie. my toe.
We listened to a CD on the bus. It had the most RANDOM acoustic remix of Wonderwall EVER on it. No, seriously, this was bizarre. He sort of lengthened random words, then added pauses, eg:

Today is gonna be the... day that theeeeeeeeeeeeeeir gonna... throwitback...to... YOU!

It was shit. Once we were in Hamsterland, Croucher got lost. I made a mistake in the previous blog, in saying the lake was in Haziwinkle; this was incorrect. The lake was actually the Amsterdam Bos, and nobody had a fucking clue where the hell it was. I mean, for fucks sake. So we were sitting in Wilko's bus, following Croucher's bus all across the farming reigons of Amsterdam. Amusingly, we saw EVERY traditional Nederlands stereotype in the space of an hour: Dykes (tee-hee), Clogs, Windmills, and a lack of hills. The only thing we didn't see were latex-clad ladyboys smoking spliffs while taking dumps on top of leather-boy scout uniform wearing bondage slaves. But I get enough of that at Steve's house, I don't need much more, to be honest.

But COME ON, Croucher. At least look up where the damn lake is next time. It was hilarious, we went into so many random car parks etc; and Wilko's language got more and more foul as the day went on and we progressed through my REM CD. By the time we were at 'Nightswimming' he was theatening GBH on our beloved rowing leader. Well, not really beloved. But we arrived eventually.

Then we found out that Mr Nimmons (one armed guy, boatie coach) had died, and that was quite sad. Not on the actual trip, of course. That would have been bad. He was in Portugal. And to think; I was the last one to ever get the Mr Nimmon's award. Well, technically, it was that wankerish J15 who got it this year, but he's probably gay, and I'll beat it out of him. I'm only kidding. I couldn't beat an egg sandwich out of a damp paper bag. What do I say? I know not.

Sunday to Saturday
Everything sort of runs together at this point. I can literally not remember anything, except for a few perks:

I learnt that I can stroke the boat. Now, I can't be bothered to properly explain what that bit of boatie terminology means, so you will just have to use your imagination. Knock yourselves out in the imaginamanation department. However, with Simon (SEXY) behind me, I had all the amusement I needed. I know, it's not big, it's not clever, but it is FUCKING HILARIOUS to wind him up, eg:

(the balance in the boat is off)
Simon (fuming angry): Get the BALANCE...
Me: Simon says get the balance!
Simon: SHUT UP
Me: Simon says shut up!
Simon: *angry spluttering sound*
Ben: Calm down, Simon.
Me: Simon says rub your head!
*Ben rubs his head*

Hahahha. Or:

Cox: Bowside, row on.
Me: Yeah, bowside, sort it OUT.
Simon (who is on bowside): Arghhhhrgh.

Now I think about it, it's not that funny, but it was in the boat, ok? Screw YOU.
Then the first eight ran rampant with a razor on one fateful afternoon. After taking off Hudspith's eyebrows, they look out half of one of Sasha's. Hahahahha, Hudspith looks like such an orc. He is ODD, with a capital ODD. So, indeed, ODDodd. And then Curry got his head shaved. Seriously, I reckon he brought it upon himself. I mean, you would have to be a total fuckwit to allow a bunch of overexcited boaties to give you a haircut. But he was bought over by their promises of fancy 'speed lines'. Hmm. Here it is in excruciating detail:

1: They start to cut a line in his hair. Nobody has any clippers, so they just use beard trimmers and some blunt hair scissors.
2: They end up cutting a fat chunk of hair out, in a roughly triangular stylee shape.
3: In order to sort this, they just cut some more out. Somebody, in an attempt to 'even it out', shaves a hunk off.
4: The original hairdressers run off, but some more join in. A huge crowd forms in the bathroom where this is taking place.
5: Somebody tells Curry that 'it'll be fine', but cracks up laughing halfway through. An honest to goodness gay boatie is consulted. He suggests making a cool looking racing stripe. Curry now looks like a reverse monk.
6: A huge bald patch is now hacked/created.
7: Linacre wanders in, sees the 'do', and cracks up laughing. Curry looks miserable. The entire boat club is now crammed into the hotel room.
8: The rest of Curry's hair is taken off with some low-battery beard trimmers by Linacre.
9: Curry looks pissed off.

ALSO, I had no idea that so many of my fellow boaties were such wankers. WANKERS. I mean that literally. Not one of them could go for a week without jerking off. IT'S ONE WEEK. At least I have some damn self-control. And then they all went off and bought porn, then looked really pleased with themselves. Great, you spent your parent's money and bought some nasty low budget lesbian porn dvds. Well bloody done. But stop looking so superior. Porn is, basically, pretty pathetic, when you get down to it. You saw some boobies, now please stop being so over-excited.
Although, Boner did once again manage to live up to his nickname. That was amusing.

Ho hum. I can't be bothered to type more. Mr Fisher is a dude, with his random australian country rock, most of which revolves around drinking and sex. Dude. DUDE.

Raise your hand if I rule.



Oh, so that's everyone. Tee hee hee.

Cow bullets: Amoonition.