Sebastian goes to the fair


The great debate, crab or lobster?? Either way Sebastian has now become my new style icon,and at this very moment we could be mistaken for twins. Although the sun’s visit was brief, the damage was enough; he has vanished back behind the dull tones of grey, whilst leaving me to deal with the consequences. My first mistake was that rookie error of  sun cream, since last year I appear to have lost my bargain basement bottle, don’t worry, as of now it will be top of my shopping list. As I poked my head from the skylight I assured myself a few hours in the sun would do no harm, and that my pasty skin could do with an update. I crammed my bag with books, a bottle of Dr.Pepper and a bag of Jelly Babies fresh from the freezer (try it, they make a refreshing summer treat); I migrated from pyjamas, flung on a pair of shorts and a vest,and set off to work on my farmer’s tan.

Spread eagled like a starfish I glinted up at the sun, and modestly munched my way through my gelatinous children. The freezer had stuck them together, clumped for safety in numbers to avoid selection for my mouth. Like some kind of alien from a Ridley Scott film I ripped off their heads and sucked out the insides . Finally,two lone soldiers found time to pose for a picture, before biting the bullet and joining their comrades. I was quite happy brushing up on ethics, madly scrawling away notes until the inevitable happened, just as I actually set out to do work my pen broke; the ink chugged to a halt as I naively jabbed at the page, trying the resurect my stationary. Giving up I rolled onto my back and admitted defeat. Fortunately my boredom and Jelly Baby massacre didn’t last long, my friend Charles decided to join the party. He had spent the morning telling me how amazing his new phone and GPS was, however he couldn’t put it into good use and track me down in the Hyde Park masses; my red and white tan streaks made it much like a game of “Where’s Wally.A trip to the shop, and we were stacked with ciders and beers, ready for our return to the park; the air was filled with a cocktail of drugs, the hiss of NOS canisters, and the melee of conversations. As the wind set upon us, and the evidence of my sunburn set in we decided to call it a day; Charles suggested we continue the festivities at Hyde Park pub, where a football game was on.

I would like to point out at this point I am not a football fan, I wouldn’t know one side of the pitch from the other, but before long I felt myself caught up in atmosphere. I oohed and aaahed with every missed opportunity, and smiled as I saw the smugness of John Terry wiped away; the love rat slithered back to the changing room to lick his wounds following a red card. Perhaps it was the cider talking, or the general ambience, but I have to say I enjoyed myself, and even fitted in quite well. Charles suggested I randomly select a team, and support them no matter what……he said “Spurs?”, I said “another time.“It was all going smoothly, until I approached the bar, and heard the inevitable….“You got any I.D mate?” My man point quota plummeted. Still not satisfied with the evening we stumbled back to Charles’ halls, with the promise of collecting more alcohol on the way. The bright neon lights of a fair drew us in, like psirens it called to us, and we couldn’t help but ride the giant spinning wall! Whirled like clothes in washer your head was flung backwards, pinned to the cage, all you could do was laugh and enjoy the ride; although I was slightly unnerved by the toothless man opposite me trying to lift himself off the ground. Suitably spun we collected our alcohol and made our way through the fair; the two bald men behind exclaimed that we would have enjoyed the ride much more if we had been on “Meow, meow,” I left them to it!

The evening continued, we drank MORE, watched Britain’s got talent, and visited the flat next door. The time rumbled on, to the constant phrase, “Is that all the time is,” when 11pm rolled around I decided I should take the long walk back to Hyde Park. Alone in the dark, on the streets of Leeds  I turned to Becki Bell for a phonecall; when it came to the decision of: Long safe work home, or Dark rape walk home, she advised me to take the shorter route. Through the park I went, unrecognisable from the fun of the day, now it was filled with the ghostly rememnants of litter, and dark shadows. I kept a bottle firmly gripped, playing the scenario of smashing it in an attackers face; thankfully it didn’t come to that, which is good, because I probably would have just ran anyway.

This morning I awoke to a reminder on my doorstep to register as a voter; my new found appreciation for politics may just sway me to register, but then that is just the start. Who to vote for? In all honesty I wouldn’t know where to begin, the closest I get to supporting anyone is joining a facebook group laughing at vandalised conservative billboards; it is a highly reccomended group, and worth a laugh. I’m sure my vote would be much more relevant in the next election, but for the time being I would quite like to see the Lib Dems wipe the botox look off Cameron’s face; though i’m sorry to say to Mr. Brown, I think it is time you were put out to pasture. Continuing my sealife theme from before, I have been desperately trying to find a story for my 5 minute TV package. I emailed the Blue Planet Aquarium in an attempt to find something interesting, and that I would enjoy filming. I thought about diving with sharks, but was immediately put off by the £200 price tag; I pay a lot of extras for my course, but that is one thing my modest loan won’t stretch to. Even with the impending workload the aquarium tank is half full, I’ve nearly reached the end of my second year, and I can see myself going somewhere. Before I know it, it will be May 17th and I will be stepping into BBC Merseyside for my work experience, just another sheep in the pen, or the start of something great? But for the moment back to David Randall’s “Universal Journalist,” whilst I pray I will soon be some shade of brown, not copying the crustaceans.


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