Watching the Olympics
Watching the Olympics
After the Olympic events have happened, there is a brief synopsis on the news of who won, what records were broken, and footage of the key moments like the last few seconds of the 100m sprint etc. This is more than enough for me. How a country that considers snooker and darts to be sports can host the Olympics I don’t know, but nonetheless I shall avoid it.
Let’s be honest, barbecues are rubbish. The meat is overcooked by a drunk friend or an over keen father with small man syndrome. Then your charcoal sandwich is normally interrupted by a 100% pure British monsoon that sends you scampering inside like a wet stray dog
Going on a ‘lads’ holiday
There is nothing I would want to do less than find a run down area of Eastern Europe still sympathetic to Communism, get flights and a hotel off a bloke on a street corner, then go for 3 days with a swarm of sweaty drunk Neanderthals who call you gay for not downing a pint of their piss. Then return home with no money or dignity, sporting the finest new range of Chlamydia, only to hear someone say ‘Same again next year LADS!’
My decision on this is based on cost to talent ratio. If tickets cost less, I would probably attend, but I don’t really fancy paying £200 to see Jamelia doing a duet with a hologram of Marilyn Monroe, while back at my tent some pissed indie kid, in a t-shirt with a band that he doesn’t know on it, thinks it will be the cause of many a merriment to excrete on my belongings in a hilarious practical joke.
Camping is so horrible and pointless that it feels a bit like a myth. Nobody has ever actually gone camping. Ever. Shops sell Santa stockings at Christmas, knowing that Santa does not exist to fill them. So is this what camping shops do? No fun can be had by taking a tent, the inability to wash or use the toilet, cooking on a fire like a caveman, and a trip-length full body cramp, and throwing them all together in a giant stew of disappointment.
I am not a fat kid or an American girl, so therefore the idea of going to summer camp does not appeal to me. That is all.
Feet are repulsive. Thus, sandals are repulsive. Every time I walk past some awful looking man with his disgusting, hairy toes peering out of a pair of ‘designer’ sandals like Nazi fugitives peering over a wall in a French field, it makes sorrow seep from my soul. A swimming pool is the only place I should be able to get a veruca, not at Tesco’s.
Anything remotely productive
As a student who has just finished another year of academia, I feel obliged to do nothing except juxtapose the position of my posterior between bed and sofa, occasionally going to a night club that I don’t like, or simply going to sit on someone else’s sofa. No matter what plans you make this summer, if you read that and think that isn’t what pretty much every student does all summer, every single year, then you are lying to yourself.
Getting a tan
I don’t have the patience or interest in getting a tan. Quite frankly, I would look ridiculous anyway. I’m a small, ginger, pale Irish guy with blonde hair on my legs. So whether it is of the fake kind or of the cancer inducing kind, I think I will keep my timid Irish bone cover away from the sun, much like a vampire.
By the looks of things, having any fun whatsoever.
It is common knowledge that nothing is fun. While my Summer will be a few months of me complaining that I have nothing to do, it will be better than the other months of the year when I complain about having to do things. Whilst my friends will do the things I have spoken of, I will nod and pretend I am doing them and that I can’t wait, but instead I will slither around my room with the curtains closed, in the knowledge that, as a 22 year old student, I am now of the age were I am still young enough to have a lazy summer, but old enough that everyone in society resents me for it.