In which we bury Thatcher alive.

Well, the election has been and gone. Dimbleby's just about made it through alive. And Cameron's PM. This is a dark day for Britannia. I'd rather it were Boris Johnson if Labour have completely given up the ghost.

In other news, I have recently discovered the delights of an Innocent Veg Pot, and the Queen (god bless her) wore an ugly hat today. I also spent the majority of a Victorian Literature exam chatting about how 'Through The Looking Glass and What Alice Found There' is a tale of burgeoning sexuality and the loss of childhood innocence. And they say my degree is a load of bull.

I shall now endeavour to ind the quickest and cheapest route out of a Tory Britain.

Ta-rah.

The 'G' in G&T

Hola. I have just arrived back from the wet northern lands of Cumbria and a what some would say ill-advised camping trip. Being 6ft5", it is somewhat difficult to be comfortable in an average sized tent, let alone one being pummeled by the wild Cumbrian rains. However, I somehow made it back to tell the tale, with promises that the experience shall be one that is repeated. It was actually quite fun, really. The food was appalling, and it took twenty minutes to boil a kettle. I say 'boil' nut the tea that I was presented with was somewhat lukewarm, but it was wet so my dry throat was saved at least.

I don't think I'm the natural outdoors person, to be honest. Don't get me wrong, the Cumbrian fells are stunning and I enjoy a good walk, but I like a bed and washing facilities. Not much to ask, really. But drinking gin in the wee small hours makes up for this.

Back to the uni lark tomorrow, so an early night pour moi. I'll come back when I've something more interesting to say.

A man is whatever room he is in.

After some time apart (over two months) I have decided to come back and record my life. I almost stunned by the applause.
Right now, I should be finding every bit of ID under the sun for my interview tomorrow morning. A nice little summer job in the civil service apparently requires birth certificate, passport, driving license, P45, P60, National Insurance card, fingerprints from the midwife who delivered you and blood samples from at least six generations of your family. That's the Department for Work and Pensions for you. I worked there a couple of years ago. Money was good, the days were monotonous, but I was surrounded by middle-aged women so time ticked by quite nicely for the six weeks I was there.
I've spent most of the day deciding whether to wear a two piece, or a three piece suit. I really have too much time on my hands. It's days like these that I wish I had a girlfriend in my life to give me focus and stop considering the next days sartorial triumph. And then I wonder why I'm single. Anyway, I've decided on the three piece: slightly ostentatious some may argue, but I always feel more comfortable in a three piece. The waistcoat just finishes the outfit off. Apparently they're more popular on the continent than here in Blighty. Shame. Anyway, it better bloody get me the job because je suis tres skint (who doesn't love a bit of frangalis? - my flatmates in my first year at uni seemed to want to avoid me at first when I asked the question 'do you ever find yourself just texting in french?').
Speaking of uni, the course is going well, but I'm commuting from home next year. the whole halls of residence thing is getting on my tits. The drunken fresher phase is well and truly dead.
Best be off. I have to be up at sparrow's spit upon the morrow. Let's talk again soon.

In which I profess my love for Florence and the Machine, Mad Men and Cruella DeVil.

Well lo and behold, despite my own misgivings regarding the blogging phenomenon here I am again. Currently listening to the dulcet tones of the divine Florence and the Machine. She probably would have looked like Joan off Mad Men back in the 60's. Or perhaps not. Alas, my many attempts to blend two of my favourite things generally don't work. Oh well.

To the events of the day: probably the most exciting thing was the brief interlude in my literary theory lecture wherein the lecturer thought it necessary to show us a clip from the musical 'Hair' to demonstrate her point. Shame I don't actually recall what the point was, but it was nice to have some entertainment in the middle of what was quite a dull lecture. 'Theories of the Body'. Thrilling.

I'm currently debating the title of this blog. I thought at the time 'A Dandy in Decay' summed me up quite nicely. Not as sure today. I don't think I quite have the funds to finance an attempt at playing the dandy, let alone one on the wane. I once read an interesting quote regarding dandy-ism. It was something along the lines of 'a true dandy-ism is effortless; to make an effort is to fail at this' or something of that ilk. I suppose it's quite true in a way. Anyway, I still like the idea of a dandy in decay, so I shall stick to that for the time being.

In fact, the whole idea of dandy-ism is quite alien to my background. I was (this may shock you) actually brought up on a dairy farm in a small provincial village. One of those places where everyone knows everyone else and most people are related. A farming background generally results in one having some form of relationship with the land and the beasts, not in pursuing a degree in English Literature. Very much the black sheep (my own wit astounds me). My mother blames this on her letting me watch Disney films as a youngster. Her excuse for this is that all her friends had girls, so I just got dragged along. Probably explains a lot. But I always did root for the villain, be it Jafar in 'Aladin' or the fabulous Cruella DeVil.

Just debating whether to do some work for tomorrow, or whether just to stick on a DVD and have a cheeky alcoholic beverage. I'll let you guess which is looking more appealing.

Adios.

I'm ridiculously northern.

I must admit right now I'm new to the whole concept of blogging. Apparently it's the 'in' thing to do, and as a slave to every trend, one felt it necessary. The internet as a whole I tend to treat as something that ought to be kept at arms length. I still can't download music or anything like that.
I should probably introduce myself. Tom, 19, Lancashire, Great Britain. I study English Literature at Lancaster University and I quite enjoy it. I spend the vast majority of my life being a sad old lush to be perfectly frank and my musical tastes are apparently questionable. I try and act quite sophisticated, but inevitably result in aping Alan Bennett; I'm ridiculously northern.
Lancaster is quite a nice city to live in. I say 'city', but if anything it's just a bit of an average town. I think the 'city' element came into play after the war (World War II - I say it as if I was there) when the King gave it official status. Someone once said it's the Bath of the north. I don't know which side of Bath they'd seen, but I don't think the two are quite in the same league. Anyway, despite it's size it is pleasant enough. But you could probably do every club in town within two nights. And some of them you wouldn't bother with again.
Anyhoo, 'tis now past the hour of midnight/the witching hour. Another day must dawn and I must read Frankenstein for Monday morning. Perhaps we'll meet again.