Friday, September 17, 2004

Don't say it's useless and don't say forget it

A couple of months ago, I came home from a working holiday in England. I never really liked being there, probably because I lived near Crawley, home of Robert Smith and the highest teen pregnancy rate in Britain. It wasn't really as much England as a little piece of Eastern Europe where you happened to speak the language. So I don't really miss it much. Except when I wear stilettos; I'm sick and tired of the cobbled streets of Denmark, they're ruining my shoes so just pour some asphalt over them (the streets, not my shoes) already!

Close-ish to Crawley is Haywards Heath where Brett Anderson grew up. Brett Anderson has cleverly decided to get back together with Bernard Butler to make music. I refuse to get excited about this, because if I do, I can tell already now that whatever comes out of that cooperation will be immensely disappointing. However, you can see pictures from the studio here (via Frekvens). I never knew Brett had such hairy arms!

And speaking of people breaking up, these two are getting a divorce. I'm pretty unbothered, especially seeing as I'm a republican, but I do look forward to an explanation as to why they're both moving in with their ex-in-laws. Is it just that other people's parents always seem a bit nicer and normal than your own, or what?
I never liked that woman anyway. Had they been dysfunctional in a more normal way, I promise you that she'd been dragging him around IKEA, screaming "Joachim! We need more beige!".

Anyway, I'll be leaving for home now, hoping that my Kasabian-album has arrived!

Monday, September 13, 2004

But he f***ing hates Tinky Winky

Tonight, Danish TV is airing two different shows abut football. The first one is on Zulu and, as I gathered, about rounding up collection of geeks and making them into a proper football team who then, in the end, will play FC Copenhagen (which, really, can’t be that hard, now can it? I mean, they couldn't even beat Randers. Pur-lease!). The other is about the fascist regimes of the 30’s and 40’s using football as propaganda. Like General Franco having Real Madrid as his favourite team and thus causing endless rivalry between them and FC Barcelona. Probably. Footballers and their fans; not just nancy boys, nerds and fascists, too! What’s not to like?

On another football-related note, Danish telly has also started to show the women’s world cup qualifiers (I think). Maybe, from a feminist perspective, I should be happy about this. From a TV viewing perspective, though, it’s just even more of a shite thing. Only this time with pony tails. Oh wait

And don’t you just hate the way these guys say “field goal”? Feel gouwl. Eurgh!

Friday, September 10, 2004

Come home


Oh, and this is my living room. It's a bit more homely in real life (I hope) and I'm thinking of re-arranging my CD's as to make them look a bit less pathetic on the shelves.

Does it matter if I give in easy?

I’m a dreadful blogger these days. It’s not that I don’t have anything to tell, it’s just that I forget to write and when I get to a place with internet access, I can’t remember half of it and the other half is just a big jumble. Anyway, I just started my studies at the Institute of Political Science. So far it’s actually alright, but then I’ve only been there for a week. In any case, some of the things that make it nice are;

1. The institute is the one place in all of inner Copenhagen that buys the most bottled beer.
2. As a way of saying thank you, Carlsberg has bought us a jukebox. I haven’t checked it out entirely just yet, but there’s Stone Roses on it, so it can’t be all bad.
3. Like both my primary school and my high school, the building is red brick with ivy and built in 1910. It makes it feel a bit more like home, I think.
4. Just a bit up the street is a shop with a massive selection of whiskey.
5. You just have to love a place where you get to study cleavage theory, don’t you? I mean, you can’t tell just by looking at it that it’s about class cleavage.

I had some more stuff to say, like how I think it’s funny that you can buy mushrooms that are called Trompettes de la mort (that’s Trumpets of Death to the non-Francophone amongst you) in your local Føtex, but as an effect of my poor memory and my even worse work ethic, I can’t tell what it was. I’m pretty sure that it involved porn and shoes, though.