Ice skating

For years past girlfriends have been swearing they are going to make me go ice skating. Every ounce of my common sense went against it, why would anyone move on to a cold slippery surface that is difficult to function on when the safe, frictiony and relatively warm ground is everywhere. Not to mention, when on a slippery surface, having sharp blades attached to the end of your legs, the least controlled of the limbs, is a ridiculous idea.

Despite my resistance for so many years, my girlfriend succeeded where many (not really many) have failed before her and got me to go ice skating in the fair city of Nottingham on her visit to see me at university. All was well until we tried to get on the ice, we were immediately turned away by the ice bouncer for not tying our skates tight enough. Naturally he retied her's for her, leaving me - the novice, to fend for myself. With my feet now dying under the intense pressure of the sharp plastic skates I made my way towards the ice, absolutely certain I was going to die. The classic bambi on ice comparison was pulled out repeatedly, although unlike bambi, I didn't fall over. On my second visit with friends I was given the advice "trust the ice", I chose to ignore it, as far as I'm concerned the ice is the enemy that must under all circumstances be conquered. This time I was compared to a giraffe on ice, all arms and legs flailing everywhere.

I hate the children who can do it, less than a third of my age and whizzing around, cutting me up and tutting my slowness. A particularly twattish kid cut in front of me and in my anger I muttered to my companion "I hope the little bastard falls over." Seconds later, he did, there were tears and lots of people checking on him. I got quite a glare from my friend, guilt consumed me...for about 2 seconds before I cracked up, carefully disguising it as a coughing fit. That will show the smug little wanker.

On my two visits, I have developed the ability to go reasonably fast, despite flailing arms. Unfortunately I have not yet learnt how to stop, people and the sideboards are my only method of stopping. More often than not I judge it quite well and gently stop myself with my hands. However sometimes I come in far too fast and cause a huge panic to whichever unlucky friend I have grabbed on to or crush my stomach and ribs against the wall, it hurts. Still not fallen over though.

Despite all my fears and doubts, I really enjoy ice skating, I should have been less resilient with my exs, I could be a good skater by now.

Strikes and toilets

I was filled with anger for humanity a lot this week, the main reason was the public sector strike. Deluded morons throwing their toys out of the pram because they are feeling the effects of the country having no money. In my university bubble we were unaffected though, university lecturers (arguably the most intelligent people in the country) decided not to go on strike, being intelligent and well-informed enough to know that they have actually got a good deal, it could be worse and that this kind of strike is incredibly unlikely to achieve anything. Enough about that, I could write about that forever and no one wants that. In short, I respect the right to strike but this was not the time for it.

What really pissed me off was a toilet attendant in a club, they just expect to be paid for handing you a piece of paper to dry your hands. They are just twats who could be easily be replaced by some moderately well assembled plastic. If anything they are unhygienic, clubs are expensive enough as it is without having to pay to was my hands effectively so on my first lavatory trip I used my trousers to dry my hands and on the second abstained from washing my hands at all. You may know they also sell other things, such as a spray of aftershave, condoms and lollipops, preying on the drunk masses. Any vaguely well prepared club-goer will have already have sprayed on a bit of aftershave and have brought along a condom. Even on the off chance they pull and have neglected to bring a condom, the girl will most likely have remembered - that's right ladies, there's a dual responsibility for protection. With all that in mind the only reason for the toilet-men is to sell lollipops at extortionate prices. They all need to fuck off and get a real job, or maybe they are so unskilled that they essentially have to withhold needed commodities to make a bit of money. I hope they hate themselves as much as I hate them. I hope some club managers are reading this, sort those dickheads out! And while I have your attention, stop playing just one verse of the songs I like while playing shit songs all the way through. Over and out.