A Game For Winter

What do you need?



How do you play?











I have been playing Scarf a lot.

stupid bloggy foreshadowing

I check not just once, but twice, about the ingredients in the mashed potato and I am assured not just once, but twice that there is neither milk nor egg within its crumbly matrix. As I swallow my first mouthful of it and feel my throat burst into screaming flame, I decide to allow the slight possibility that I might have been deceived not just once, but twice.

I run into the kitchen and start swallowing water hoping that the mash simply contained a whole bunch of needles and I would be able to flush them out. In between futile gulps I manage to yell something in the general direction of the chef. My stomach churns depressingly as he casually mentions that by the way I probably shouldn't eat the mashed potato as a couple of gallons of milk have just been emptied into it.

Bother!

I sprint to the Medic and cooly inform him that I am going to be very, very sick and would he mind terribly making sure I don't die? He watches me throw up everything I've eaten over the last two days into a nearby bin.

Five minutes pass.

My pulse is normal.

I try and throw up some more, but there is nothing left to evacuate. It hurts.

Ten minutes pass.

A disturbing rash appears all over my body.

I continue to hurt.

I begin to palpitate.

Five minutes pass.

I try and throw up some more, not expecting any miracles. Blood fountains from my mouth.

I begin to worry.

The medic takes this opportunity to ask me if I'm OK.

I respond by spraying some more blood in his general direction.

I have a stabbing pain in my stomach.

The medic decides to call an ambulance.

I do not fault his decision.

I stagger into the Ambulance and sit down. They begin to drive, but do not turn on the siren. For some reason this really upsets me.

Half way through the journey I realise that the stabbing pain in my stomach does not signify impending death. In fact it signifies an urgent need to poo.

"Hello Paramedic! I need to poo."
"OK."
"No, you don't understand. I need to poo. Right now."
"We have no facilities for that here."
"I feel I should inform you that I am pooing right now."

My mind boggles at the revelation that ambulances have nowhere for sick people to defecate. Am I the first person ever to poo on an ambulance? Surely a small toilet is a useful design feature to install? Hell, a barrel in the corner would do. Even prison cells have toilets.

I cannot stop myself from squeezing log after squishy log into my pants. I cannot remember a time when I have pooped anywhere but a toilet. I also cannot remember a time when I lacked any kind of ass control. This is not fun.

Through a supreme effort of will I clench both buttocks into a single horribly stained cheek and stem the brown tide of filth.

The hospital appears to be located several thousand miles away.

I wish desperately for clean underwear.

We finally arrive at the hospital and I waddle determinedly towards a toilet.

It takes half an hour before I am fully purged.

At several moments I need to brace myself against the wall.

I emerge several kilograms lighter and with the sharp pain in my chest gone.

My trousers smell. A lot.

That toilet will need to be condemned.

I get to ride in a wheel chair the full five metres from the toilet to my bed.

I get given one of those neat backless surgery gowns and someone else's name tag. I try to point this out and in response am stabbed in the finger. A quantity of blood is removed from me.

I do not feel like I am in safe hands.

The rash begins to subside.

My blood pressure is taken and found to be low.

I am feeling a lot better.

I explain that I have low blood pressure.

They do not believe me and leave me with only my effluent clothes for company.

My brother arrives with a car.

I decide that it is time to leave.

I return to the campsite.

Five minutes pass.

I am in the shower, but I will never be clean.

"Cry Havoc!"

I've just packed up my pimping gear, which includes a spare pimping suit in case anything goes wrong with my first choice. Yes, it's that time of year again when I wander off to be a Youth Leader on a Winter Camp. Not content with meaningless inter-power, I anxiously seek out petty situations I can dominate in the real world too! Oh ego, you're so wacky!

I shall be spending just over a week attempting to teach kids how to be productive members of society through a hideous combination of entertainment and informal education that I like to call intertational. I plan to use this term as much as possible. Why have I stolen all your cuddly toy animals and hung them with thick rope from the ceiling with stuffing hanging out and ketchup pools of blood beneath them? Because it's intertational, little Jimmy. Because it's intertational. Now stop your crying and learn a valuable moral lesson!

I will also be wearing a pimp suit and encouraging others to do the same.

There are reasons.

I should be back before the New Year. If I am not, assume the worst.

They probably fed me eggs.

haze

my mind is whirling and i can't focus

it's been a week and i haven't had one good night's sleep

i was hoping being at home would give me some time to relax

no dice

too many essays, too much illness, too little time

little time, little time, little time

outside it is raining inside it is draining

all critical thinking has flown away on leathery wings

splendid

Static good?

So I'm currently reading Lila: An Inquiry into Morals, which is yet another item I have purchased recently in Oxfam. They even gave me a special card that says if I spend yet MORE money, I can get some sort of voucher in the dim and distant future.

Lila was bought because I've been idly keeping an eye out for it ever since I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by the same author. I was attracted to Zen because of the snappy title, but it sure turned out to be a thought-provoking read. Oh Robert M. Pirisig, you may have a name that I can never remember, but you have books full of smarts!

It's first night Chanukah on Tuesday! I went gift shopping yesterday and come the morrow, my housemates shall receive many nifty things. Mostly projectile weaponry, but also dvds! Whoo! My only regret is that there aren't more Chanukah themed songs. Adam Sandler and dodgy parodies of Hey Ya (We spin the dreidl, oh we spin the dreidl!) should not be the limits of Chanukah-related musical entertainment. Just ONE new, catchy and original song would make me happy. Just ONE new, catchy and original song with a prominent bass line, saxaphone and maybe a breakdancing Rabbi. Is that so much to ask?

Oi vey.

Fake it 'til you make it

The theatre people got back to me again. They want me to be Paris. I said "OK" because it's clear to me that they're obscenely desperate for male parts. I wandered down to a rehearsal two days ago, pretty confident that I'd be able to handle it - I mean I just need to be cocky and say things like "These times of woe afford no time to woooooooooo!" and make ghost gestures with my hands. Easy!

Then they told me it was a 'dance rehearsal'. I was halfway out the door before I realised they wanted me to participate. Laughing in their collective faces failed to disuade them. Oh well. I shall demonstrate to them the error of their decision not through my words, but through my actions!

I have no formal dancing experience at all, excluding that time some girl tried to teach me how to waltz in time for a big dinner-dance. Foolish girl! Ballroom dancing is for people with grace, balance, hand-eye co-ordination and did I mention balance?

The choreographer got us doing stretches. Turns out that spending the majority of your time sat on internet does not give you a flexible body able to handle the rigours of THE DANCE! Being able to type a lot words per minute does not automatically translate into having the lithe, muscular body of THE DANCE! I decided that I was not starting off on the best foot (pun) when I couldn't even complete the stretches without falling over twice. I managed to play it off by saying "Whoa! Did anyone else feel that?!" and looking around worried, but I think the choreographer was on to me.

"OK guys! We'll start off slow. Just do what I do."

Starting off slow. That's good. I can handl-

"5 6 7 8 and step and step and swivel-step and arms-up 3 4 and step click step click step click step click and arms-down shoulder-turn freeze 2 3 4"

Wha-

"All together now!"

And they all did it perfectly! All of them! How I hate them with their dance experience and grace and ability to spin around on their left foot with their right foot in the air without barrelling into the girl next to them and making her glare at me, well I'm sorry little miss Ballet Lessons Since The Age Of Five, but my talents lie elsewhere. I just need to get them in a Super Smash Brothers tournament. Not so big now you're trapped in an egg, are ya?

By the end of the two hours (two hours!) I had worked out a way to fake the dance so if I hid at the back it looked like I was doing it right, but really I was just lifting my arms and walking around. Maybe this dance-play wouldn't be so bad, after all?

Then I went to yesterday's rehearsal. I wandered along ready to hit them with such gems as, "But now my lord, what say you to my suit?" which I planned to gleefully misinterpret as a reference to my snappy new Oxfam number.

First I asked them if they had a script for me. The director told me no, but not to worry, as today was a 'singing rehearsal'. I didn't even bother laughing in his face, because it was clear how this was going to turn out. But this time I wasn't alone! There was another guy who hadn't been to a singing rehearsal yet. An ally! At last!

They asked us what kind of voices we had and without hesitation the new guy said "Baritone". I hated him immediately because my answer of "Shocking" wasn't what they wanted. Of course the entire cast could sing spectacularly. I couldn't hit middle C. I couldn't even swing a puny fist in its general direction.

Terrible decision makers though they were, they weren't stupid enough to give me anything to perform solo. A plan formed! I would do what those wacky pop stars do when they can't sing - lip sync! I tested my plan.

When I sang along with everyone else the musical director would stop playing his nifty keyboard thing and say "Wait, wait, someone's a bit flat."

BUT, when I just lip synced, he had nothing but praise. "Wow guys, much better!"

After Christmas we'll be starting the actual dialogue, so until then I'll just work on that damn step click.


In other news I was recently auctioned off as a slave for £17.00.

BUSY TIMES!