The greatest thing...you'll ever learn...

...is how not to piss off your classmates.


Spot a skit, age 12.

BAD seeds

So what is it? Where’s the attraction?

We’re not great writers. Certainly not all of us, and with the insanity of the story to deal with, there is only so much that even the best can do.

We’re not that funny. I mean, we are – I laugh – but we wouldn’t be considered that funny by most other people. A lot of the humour is in-jokes, and 50% of the time it’s in-jokes that have been done a million times before.

We’re certainly no good at either creating a credible plot or keeping it straight once we do. And can anybody remember a time when we haven’t somehow ended up in interconnecting caves?

And there is always a certain lethargy associated with BADs, isn’t there? It strikes somewhere around page 4, and usually manifests as unnecessary plot twists, uninspired posts and characters disappearing as their owners forget about it.

So why do I love them so? I have never sat one out, even when I really should have done. I don’t want this one to stop. I am incredibly awful at pretending to be a clone, but that doesn’t make me write short posts. I find myself sneaking on the internet at work just to see if anyone’s figured out something to do with the genetically modified pigs yet. In the evenings, going back every hour or so to see whether anyone has come up with something that can surprise a shout of laughter out of me.

And here, I think, is the crux: I would never bother writing a humorous story myself. Even though it would be a lot easier to keep track of, and it would still amuse me, and I’d end up a lot happier with the plot. But there is something about the fact that it’s all of us writing it. Something about seeing your character written in by other people, seeing them pick up an idea you’ve introduced and run with it. Okay, so there’s the more obvious popularity contest of the quote thread, but the BAD itself gives you the glowing knowledge that other people have read your posts, and that they have liked something in them enough to carry it on in theirs. That’s…nice.

So here’s to the BAD. There’s nothing quite like it.

Pretty as a picture

I finally got round to unpacking the bag containing the useful little wire which connects my camera to my computer. So here's the last bunch of Christmas photos that I will burden you with for at least the next 12 months.

In our back garden, on the one and only night of snow:


Setting off for a walk on the Fairlie moors, on New Year's Day- car, mother and dog in perfect harmony. And you can hardly even see the road.


Having climbed up large hill, view south of Ayr bay and our friendly neighbourhood wind farm (hence the drunken ramblings of the friendly farmer whose house we drove past on the way up here). That farm down below used to be a farm park which we went on school outings to.

And turning slightly to the right, this is the view to the west, of West Kilbride, the Firth of Clyde and Arran. And you're right, the sun is setting and we're quite far away from the car...


Cara say hello. And look, it was dark enough that my flash went off.


Cara say bikkit!



Just to show a bit more of the moors, this is on the way back down, but you'll have to click on the bigger version to be able to see anything at all. Mother and dog are bottom right, and car is...hmm. See, on the left, fairly near the horizon, a small area of green? Now see the small dark dot on said small area? Wave to car.


And I can post pictures of christmas trees too, you know. Except that ours was better in the dark (ie when you couldn't really see it).

Quoting

"The me that does boingy boingy on the bed with Q.

Not like that."


*rolls around on floor, unable to form thought*

Don't kill me...please...

...but I had to share that. For your public, you know?

What I Did On My Bank Holiday

1am (or thereabouts): intend to get up at about 8, in order to leave between 10 and 11.

9.30am: get up.

10am: start packing.

11am: halt packing for cooked breakfast and watch the first half of a Buffy ep with mother whilst so doing.

12.30pm: Remember a few more books, say protracted goodbyes to cat and dog, and hug mother on request.

1pm: leave. Set milometer to zero. Fill petrol tank. Put Serenity cd on. Drive to Kilmarnock on roads well-known from school days. Then drive on through Mauchline, New Cumnock, Kirkconnel and Sanquhar: towns which seem to have outlived their purpose and now cling onto life with a church and a small Co-Op. Observe small pockets of snow still present in the fields. At Mennock, turn left up into the hills on the road to Wanlockhead, immediately entering the cloud base. Trundle ever upwards, slowing for suicidal pheasants, sheep and dog-walkers. Miss turning in Leadhills and have to do strange circuit of town, followed by probably-amused native. Descend to Elvanfoot, emerging from the cloud, and join the M74, which promptly plunges into heavy fog. Sigh.

3pm: Get stuck in bad traffic jam and spend an hour getting from Lockerbie to Gretna (really not very far at all), purely due to the volume of traffic heading south and the fact that the M74 drops down to the two-lane A74 just after Gretna. Is there some rule that says no road between Scotland and England can be wider than a dual carriageway? I suspect the SNP. To calm self, open window and play 16^th-century choral music by Thomas Tallis very loudly. Amuse self by watching other drivers get out and open their boot, or swap with their wife, or start kissing their girlfriend until the traffic moves again. Eat hot cross bun and sandwiches which mother made. Yum.

4pm: cross border and pick up speed. Finally. Find that Tallis has calmed self so much that self is now falling asleep, and switch to Les Mis cd instead so that self can sing along and stay awake.

5pm: stop at Tebay services (best motorway services in Britain, in my opinion…and I’ve stopped at most of them…) as the very last drop of colour leaves the sky. Be in narky mood and go up one-way lanes the wrong way. Go to toilet. Intend to buy chocolate from shop but give up idea as queues are long. Get back in car. Drive on.

6pm: read many flashing signs saying ‘congestion M6 J33 – J22’ and decide that enough is enough and self can’t be bothered with another traffic jam. Turn off and take the A6 from Lancaster down to the Blackpool turn instead, through villages with such names as Slyne with Hest (I think this sounds like the abode for pureblood wizards who find Hogsmeade just too common) and Ellely, which I’m not sure I can say.

6.30: remember to switch from what is now an REM cd to Radio 4 in time for Just a Minute. Laugh. This takes mind of the fact that self is now stuck in traffic on the A6 because more stuff that was stuck on the M6 has decided to do the same thing as self. Proceed through Garstang at about 10mph.

7pm: rejoin M6 and buzz down past Manchester and Liverpool. Give Crewe a mental wave and feel moment of nostalgia for comfy red and silver bedroom of old, which is so nearby. Start to occupy brain with the composition of blog entries. Occupation succeeds so well that entire stretches of motorway go by without self being able to recall a single thing about it.

7.30: turn off onto A50. Yawn.

8pm: develop stomach ache. Feel temptation to call in at McDonalds at Uttoxeter. Develop self-control and drive on.

8.22pm: pull up outside flat. Milometer says 308.5 miles. Fuel gauge says feed me.

8.30: unload car and cart stuff upstairs. Discover 3 new christmas cards in letterbox. Turn heating on. Phone mother to report safe arrival. Put saucepan on with remains of beef broth from yesterday (which travelled home in an old yoghurt pot). Regret lack of bread.

9pm: sit down with soup and watch To Shanshu in L.A. as comfort food for the soul. Smile.

10pm: Compose blog entry whilst devouring Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice-cream.

Very, very soon: collapse into bed.