Archive for the ‘The Meehan’ Category
The Jogger’s Nod
January has rolled around again, making us all feel older and realise that we need to improve ourselves in many different ways under the idea of “new year, new me”. And according to a poll that I have just made up in my head, the most popular resolution is to lose weight (you’d never guess number two).
Because of this, the past two Januarys has seen my usual gym routine disturbed by fat women hogging all the treadmills, walking! They drive to the gym and then walk on the treadmill.
The advertised scene at the treadmills goes out of the window this time of year
Sometimes, to throw some variety into their gym routine of walking, they will walk on an incline, and if they’re feeling especially active, they will walk at a slightly faster pace. The elliptical trainer is usually clogged up with fat women looking like the hippos on the BBC Ident.
So to counteract this, and because my gym is far away, I have started running on the road (well more the pavement) and now I’ve started to notice the “jogger’s smugness”. Passing a jogger running the opposite direction, you give each other a half-smile and a little nod. Contained in that little nod is so much detail.
The jogger’s nod, I have wittingly decided to call it, acknowledges that you feel really good about yourself for getting off the sofa and going for a run, and that you’re better than the people at home, those who are walking and those in the gym.
I’m now a very smug jogger.
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End of term outing
Friday was our last day of term, and the start of a month off (I’ll try not to be smug about it), so to celebrate the hard work we have done, we went out and partied hard. A bunch of us went to New Cross’s premier (and only) nightclub, The Venue.
The only Venue in New Cross. Literally
A little back-story, as the Venue is the only proper night club near us, everyone used to go to it each Friday and Saturday night, and the majority of them hated it but returned each weekend. So, when I was 16, I made a vow that I would never go to the Venue, a vow that lasted up until last Friday (that’s nearly nine years).
Full of cheap drinks when we arrived, I surveyed what I had denied myself for eight years, and it seemed not that bad. There was a Killers tribute band, unimaginatively named The Killaz (yet they didn’t even rap or anything) performing, and making a half-decent job of sounding like The Killers.
With the usual suspects
The Killaz finished and then a DJ came on. I’d always been told that the music was mostly cheesy pop, but as a surprise to me, it wasn’t – I was in danger of having a good time.
A couple of times throughout the night a Christmas song would come on, and snow would fall from the roof. It wasn’t snow; it was little bits of foam, which was really cool. Well, it started off being really cool, and then got increasingly more annoying as it fell into my drink, and ruined my finely styled hair.
It wouldn't cripple the nation's transport network but it didn't half ruin my look!
Late into the night, the cheesy pop was unveiled, with Grease numbers and Saturday Night (y’know, that 90’s Whigfield abomination), at which point I decided that the Venue had served me well, and I may return to it sooner than another nine years time.
Lesson: Don’t make irrational vows to never set foot in somewhere, because it’s probably not that bad.
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Who will win X-Factor?
Alright, so as you all know this Saturday is the final of The X-Factor, the television show in which the public, but mostly Simon Cowell, gets to choose who will win and have the Christmas number one as well as the biggest selling song of the year. Then go on to release a pretty rubbish second single before fading into obscurity, stopping briefly to perform on Alan Titchmarch’s daytime chatshow, and ending up as a joke in a TV critic’s column in five years time.
Who will take up the mantle this year? Lets take a look at the candidates…
Rebecca Ferguson
As everyone keeps saying, the best singer of the final four, but unfortunately has all the personality of a sheet of tracing paper. She is unable to sing and move at the same time, which doesn’t bode well for her, as Simon Cowell wants an idiot that will jump all over the stage.
Cher Lloyd
The 17-year-old has all the swagger someone straight out of a young offenders institute, she has the ability to sing AND make a terrible job of rapping. Her rapping is the equivalent of Chinese water torture. She has managed to ruin songs by Eminem, Jay-Z, Professor Green and Avril Lavigne for me forever, and I didn’t even like Avril Lavigne in the first place! Her party trick: crumpling into a ball of tears like a kid that’s just seen their puppy being kicked in the face whenever she’s on the brink of going out. Will she win? Probably not, but she’ll be irritating us for years to come regardless.
Matt Cardle
Every year, the X-Factor needs a contestant who isn’t comfortable when not wearing a hat and Matt Cardle took on that role with gusto. I was going make loads of jokes about how he looks like a painter and decorator, and then I found out that he actually is a painter and decorator, which ruined everything. He did go to a private school though, so he wouldn’t fit in Strongbow’s ‘real workers’ ad; a painter and decorator that reaches the high notes that only a girl or a castrato can. I hope he doesn’t win, as we don’t want another Steve Brookstein, Leon Jackson or Joe McElderry situation on our hands.
One Direction
Five young guys that were formed by Overlord Cowell himself. They fit the Bieber template of being bouncy, energetic and extremely irritating. They are being touted as ‘the next boyband’, which is a kick in the teeth to JLS and The Wanted who have only just made it. Regardless of if they win, they’ll still have thousands of young girls screaming their names and crying when they get within farting distance of them, but they probably will win, because Simon Cowell wants them to.
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Facebook Stalking
Facebook stalking is a phrase that has planted itself firmly in the vocabulary of the ‘social network generation’.
For those not in the know, it’s pretty self-explanatory: logging onto Facebook turns into three hours of looking at people from your past who you hated, and then secretly gloating because your life has turned out (marginally) better than theirs.
A friend request or a new photo album appearing on your mini-feed means kissing goodbye to the next couple of hours, because it will be spent looking at pictures of a friend’s friend’s album dedicated to their new kitten.
It’s only natural to look at your friend’s new photo album, even when you know that depression will set in by photo 117 of your friend having a great time with attractive people, while you’re sat in your dressing gown, crying into your Fruit Corner.
Often you will see a friend’s status update, whether it be a funny story, joke or picture from somewhere they’ve been out. Then the next time you talk to them, they’ll tell you the same story, and the whole time you’ll be thinking: “Yes, I know all about it, I saw on your Facebook, but I have to pretend that it’s new to me and laugh along.”
These days if you get someone’s phone number, you might as well ask for their surname or e-mail address, as you know if you don’t; you’ll spend the early hours of the night searching through the millions of people that share their first name.
If people put up reams of photos of themselves, then it’s pretty much their fault that you’re stalking them. It’s like they’re willing you to do it. Of course that sounds like the court defence of a nutcase, but Facebook stalking is a lot more harmless than sitting in the tree opposite their house with binoculars, and everyone does it.
Facebook stalking: You will do it, because you can’t help it.
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Jersey Shore
I love trash TV and they don’t come anymore trashier than MTV’s real-life drama, Jersey Shore. I started watching Jersey Shore just so that I could entertain readers with a piss-taking piece on the blog but I’ve actually grown to love it!
The premise: send a bunch of Italian-New Yorkers to a beach resort in New Jersey for the summer and record them fighting, fornicating or causing drama – with more of each in every single episode than in the whole eleventh series of Big Brother. The guys are arrogant meatheads and the girls, loudmouth bitches (their words), and of course they share much in common ie. Silicone, hair extensions and tequila shots.
What develops is a scientific reaction when the volatile elements of steroid abuse, fake tits, liquor and grooming products mix. Girls hit guys, guys hit guys, guys hit girls and girls hit girls – basically there’s a lot of fighting. The girls have more testosterone than your average 5-a-side footy team (including subs), while the guys are hulking monsters of muscle and moronity.
The characters are so unlovable they actually come out the other side and you grow wearily fond of them. You can’t help but avidly follow their exploits, if only to see which one will get into a fight next. Two members of the Jersey Shore cast have broken through and are now household names, Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi and Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino.
The Situation and Snooki in all their glory
The Situation, in a show of arrogant muscular dickheads, stands outs as the lord of arrogant muscular dickheads. The two things that ‘the situation’ manages each episode is repeating the word “situation” until it loses all meaning and whipping out his stomach at any opportunity, even when the “situation” doesn’t require it (see what I did there?). Also, what sort of narcissist gives them self a nickname that starts with ‘The’?
Erm… anyway… Snooki, who looks like the slutty daughter of an uptight garden gnome, is a teeny slag with a big mouth and a bright orange glow – If there was a competition for people with no class, she would sleep in and then instead of going, go to a bar, down shots of Sambuca and try to pull guys by shouting at them.
So to sum up, Jersey Shore is a delightful car crash of a show. It’s the televisual equivalent of Malteasers, you won’t be able to let yourself stop once you’ve had a taste.
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Student March
On Wednesday, the students of this great nation took to the streets of London to express their anger at the government’s proposals to raise tuition fees from £3,000 a year, to £9,000. Me and my classmate Gerard went along, to have a laugh and look at girls.
We arrived late to Trafalgar Square, where the march was due to start, everyone had moved down Whitehall and all the way down all we could see was thousands of people waving signs and chanting such things as: “no ifs, no buts, no education cuts.”
People power in full languid flow
We joined in the marching, but not the chanting – I wasn’t that worked up enough by that point. The march was moving extremely slowly and I was getting irritated by being bundled along so me and Gerard went into a Wetherspoons at the top of Whitehall, just until the crowd moved along a bit.
When we came out, the crowd had moved halfway down Whitehall, so we caught up with it to see if they’d thought of a more exciting chant, they hadn’t. We made our way through to Parliament Square, some blokes had climbed onto a bus stop, and by their non-stop dancing, it was obvious they had more than anger at tuition fees coursing through their veins.
When some guy tried to climb over the railings, the police grabbed him and pinned him to the floor before arresting him. A guy with a loudspeaker nearby started shouting: “That man got arrested for having an opinion. This is a police state.” – just for the record, it’s not a police state. People were having a sit-down protest outside the Houses of Parliament, which was stupid, cos the floor must have been freezing.
Che Guevara eat your heart out!
As we were making our way down to Millbank, where the march culminated, Gerard got a text from his girlfriend, who works around the corner, to tell us that people were smashing windows and generally fucking shit up. I looked behind me and saw about thirty policemen and women storming down in the direction of where we were going. It was at that point that we decided to take our protest against the rise of tuition fees to the pub.
Lesson: We are not the French – sitting in a pub and moaning is best form of protest.
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Firework Night
Although last Friday was Firework Night, Saturday night was Blackheath Fireworks display or ‘South-East London’s social highlight of the winter calendar’ as I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince people.
It would seem that the novelty of standing in a freezing field, drinking cold beers and watching fireworks had worn off on my friends after the first 22 years, so they decided not to come. Undeterred, I grabbed a couple of willing participants, ie. Emma – being new to South-East London she had not yet had the honour of experiencing ‘South-East London’s social highlight of the winter calendar’ (is it convincing anyone?).
When I got up there, I soon realised I was standing in a freezing field, holding a cold beer and watching fireworks, but I wasn’t gonna let frostbite get in the way of having a good time. I spent half the display enjoying the fireworks and the other half laughing at the child-like wonder stretched across Emma’s face.The second part of the Blackheath Fireworks tradition is a lot more fun – walking down into Greenwich and getting crunk!
Get crunk!
As soon as we hit the pub, the Jagerbombs had already been ordered. My friend came back from the toilet and told me that some guys in there had realised that punching the condom machine resulted in money coming out. When they came out, with big smiles on their faces, they said they’d got £19 out of it, so I went and came out with no money and a sore hand – obviously they had taken all the money.
After (about) the eleventh Jagerbomb, Emma had to go home, so I ordered her a cab and she told me that all the Jagerbombs had made her start hallucinating – top bombing!
Lesson: Looking at fireworks and then drinking Red Bull and Jagermeister may result in hallucinations, try it at home!
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White Collar Boxing
Studying journalism has got me to do many surprising things in such a short amount of time. One of my more enjoyable tasks was my exposé on White Collar Boxing (I use exposé here for dramatic effect).
One of my more zany assignments. Don't ask, click
Boxing has had a bit of a popularity resurgence of late, and many workers see it as an alternative to the humdrum of repetitive workouts in a standard sterile gym. So me and a mate, Mark, who actually works in a white collar job, went down to a traditional boxing club in East London to see what it’s all about. I may have told the guy who was running the class I was from a major newspaper so didn’t have to pay any cash (bonus!), but it did cost me in pain!
Because I’ve never been in a fight in my life, he showed us how to stand, how to move and how to throw a punch, which is a lot more complicated than the professionals make it look. Then the fun began in the form of three-minute drills, with a one-minute break in between each one. We moved around every time our three minutes were up, from sit-ups, to punchbags, to shadow boxing and pad work. Within about ten minutes, I was reaching levels of sweat and fatigue usually reserved for a session with Davina.
Cos who doesn't want to look at Davina?
Towards the end of the 30-minute session, Me and Mark got the chance to go into the ring to do some actual sparring. Trying to block as well as hit your opponent, while guessing where they’re going to move, and guessing where and when they’re going to hit you is the most mentally and physically draining activity I have ever taken part in.
During the cool down, I looked around and there was condensation coming off everyone in the class and the gym wasn’t cold at all. The next three days I was in the worst muscular pain imaginable, basic daily activities were limited and full of pain. However I’d totally go to a boxing class again, but I can’t really go to the same one as they’re still waiting for the article about them to appear in the paper.
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The Jeremy Kyle Show
During my summer of unemployment, and therefore poorness, I spent a lot of time in front of the TV and got to indulge my secret passion for The Jeremy Kyle Show. With it being on three times a day, I was on a stable diet of indulgence.
Watching The Jeremy Kyle show is a lot like seeing an unruly child getting told off by their parents in a supermarket – you shouldn’t watch, but it’s just so entertaining. Jeremy Kyle, lord of the benefit-seekers, alcoholics and anti-social, with his weasel-like voice, and his small black weasel-like eyes, he resembles some sort of rodent… perhaps a weasel.
A weasel in a suit, with a hair-trigger temper, who can shout anything he feels like at the limitless parade of missing-toothed, dead behind the eyes, tattooed imbeciles that appear each episode. Why? Because he’s under the misguided impression that it’s helping them.
Hence each show seems to follow this simple format: Kyle mercilessly goads guests about their failings in life (of which there are many), and guests (lacking the mental capacity for a cognitive response) just shout back or threaten violence. The result: Darth Kyle has proved guest is a thug and gets the chance to provoke and humiliate said guest further.
The highlight (or should that be low-point) of the show is the revelation of paternal DNA or polygraph test, to see if one of the half-wits has, or has not been cheating on their equally mentally ill-equipped partner. Or fathered an offspring that will sadly, but inevitably, end up as a guest on the Jeremy Kyle Show in 2030 (it will still be airing then).
It all makes for good TV though!
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Another night with The Meehan
Weekends are when I undergo the massive transformation from a binge drinking student, to a binge drinking ‘man about town’. And last weekend being no different, I headed out with ‘the lads’ on Saturday night to drink alcohol and chat to girls.
Congratulations, you've just met The Lads
In the pub, before I had the chance to take off my jacket; a round of Jagerbombs appeared. Shortly after, another round appeared. This was a drinking pace that I hoped wouldn’t continue throughout the evening. Fortunately it didn’t, so I got the chance to talk about manly things and look at the girls (but not do anything about it, at least not until I had a couple more Jagerbombs inside me).
My friend Rich who was outside smoking came back in with two girls, which was nice of him. All the boys were crowding around trying to work their magic so I decided to play it cool and stand back. More Jagerbombs and then another trip to the bar revealed we had drunk the establishment out of Jagermeister, undeterred, and inexplicably, the switch to champagne was made. I can’t even remember what I got when it came to my round, but I used my card so finding out should be a pleasant surprise come statement time.
It rolled around to closing time, so we went on the hunt for somewhere else to get more drinks. Noticing one of the girls was walking alone, I went up to her and told her that my friend has just bought two puppies and wasn’t sure what to name them. She seemed interested and thought up a couple of bad suggestions, but I quickly became a victim of my own success when everybody wanted to throw their two pence in and all the boys got involved, ruining all the groundwork I had just laid down.
Nameless
The next bar was closed and when the suggestion involved getting a cab, I cut my losses and located the nearest bus stop.
Lesson: Only go drinking with women, gay guys or people who are in a relationship, because then you’ll have no competition.
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The Only Way is Essex, is it?
ITV’s ‘real life soap opera’, The Only Way is Essex, follows a group of rich, attractive morons as they go about their daily lives, which mostly consists of talking like a caricature of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, spending their money, and talking way too much about vaginas.
It’s supposed to be in a similar style to MTV’s The Hills, which means it’s made up. Hence, this lot are either too stupid to remember lines and take direction or they’re the best actors in the history of acting.
The characters are all so shallow and unengaging, it’s hard to notice when one scene changes into another. But here’s my favourites so far: Mark, a bloke who has all the sincerity of a used car salesman, he’s only one pencil moustache away from being a 1950’s movie villain. Amy, a loveable cross between a confused Koala bear and a balloon. And Kirk, the nightclub owner that’s a bit Jack Tweed, bit Danny Dyer in an irritating fusion of ‘pwopa nawty geeza’.
Special mention should go to the best supporting actor, Amy’s cousin Harry, who is so camp, he has collapsed in on himself and is now a parody of a bad stereotype.
The Only Way Is Essex is just like involuntarily sitting in a coffee shop next to some rich people who you take an instant disliking to, and then having to stare at them for an extended period of time, or at least until feeling the urge to punch them, yourself or any inanimate object in swinging distance. But I can’t seem to stop watching it!
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Em's Bday
Wednesday night was Emma’s 21st birthday; so we went ‘up town’ to celebrate it all. Me and a guy from uni dropped into the Wetherspoons before the club to make sure we had a couple of Jägerbombs inside us to start the night.
We made our way to the club, but the queue was huge and it was one in, one out, so we decided to take a look elsewhere. We ended up at a club called Moonlighting which, on a Wednesday has a student-friendly night called Cheap$kates. The drinks in Cheap$kates are dirt cheap, so the dollar-sign is more appropriate than in Ke$ha.
With birthday girl Emma
Emma turned up shortly after us with her two friends; one of them was from Ireland and the other from Chicago. In a moment of comic genius, I named them ‘Ireland’ and ‘Chicago’.
I was going through drinks at George Best’s best session rate, when a Tequila girl sauntered up. I hate Tequila, but I like girls, so I tried to give her a bit of chat without buying Tequila. She made it clear she would rather me buy the tequila, and then walked off.
Getting on famously with 'Chicago' before I put my foot in it
With the 90p vodka and cokes taking their toll I went up to Chicago (the girl) and told her she wasn’t as good as Kanye West. Get it? Chicago… the city… Kanye West comes from there. Understandably she took offence but unlike Kanye she did let me have my moment so I guess I was wrong. At that point, full of vodka and evidently empty on tact and smoothness, I thought it best to call it a night.
Lesson: You can never get enough 90p vodkas, but it’s probably best to have a limit.
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