Parents and Old People.

As a teenage boy, I do not like a lot of things. One of these is the fact I'm about a year too young for basically everything that's fun and interesting, and another is that fact that everyone above the age of around 53 thinks that you're going to kill them with your knives and rap music while driving in your stolen Ford Escort. And so, annoying schemes are thought up, such as "hug the hoodie", which is now the pure reason that I hate anyone involved in politics.
Another thing is parents, during this period of your life, their main ambition in life is to nag you, and embarrass you in every single possible way that there is.
My dad, for example, will drive past in the car when I am with a group of friends, and shout “HII MATTTT!!” at the top of his voice and then get beeped at by about five other cars because he has slowed down to about 3mph to do so. He will also be the sort of person that will try to suddenly be like you for no reason whatsoever. Mine did this by listening to Radio One and Capital, and pretending he likes the Sugababes, of whom I hate.
So, to any parents that tries to do this, I will not say please stop because they physically can’t stop being complete and utter twats all the time, what I will say however is go and bugger off to Australia, because I’m not there, and neither, are any of my friends.
If an adult has no children, the chances are that they are fat. This means that they want to become thin and this means that they need to diet and exercise. There is a place for this, and it is called the gym. This therefore, leaves no excuse to put on a pink tracksuit and power walk outside my house whilst holding a bottle of water, making this half mile strut around the block seem like an SAS expedition in the Sahara.
What is worse, is the way that you also feel very scared that they are going to attack you whilst doing so, as they are walking towards you with a determined look, and either have the face of a bulldog, or they are walking along side one.
It doesn’t get any better when they get older either. From the age of retirement, men feel the sudden urge to go off and play golf.
Golf is the most dumbest and expensive sport in the world, and when I retire, I shall make it my sworn duty never to play it. Firstly, everyone there is professional or wears tartan … or both at the same time, which means they’re much better than you at it and given half a chance they’ll prove this by getting a bogie – whatever the fuck that is, while you’re on your 99th shot sitting in a sand pit with your three iron (Again, whatever the hell that is).
While men are in the club house talking about golf like things, such as balls and clubs, women have a completely different attitude towards retirement. They sit there all day, and moan about literally everything. Everything includes me.
Now that they’re not moaning about work, or periods because their menopause is over, they will basically sit on their little arm chair all day, and look out the window thinking of everything under the sun to have a good old whine about.
Global warming. Television. Golf. Their husbands.
You name it, they’ll do it. And that’s okay, as I rarely talk to old people, but one thing I will not tolerate from anyone is;
“Things are not how they used to be...”
No they’re not, they’re better; we have colour television screens, less work, faster cars and planes, more healthcare and so on…
But no. They won’t have it. They’ll sit there, watching their HD TV sets, and moan about gang culture, knives, and guns, and reminiscing on the times they used to spend playing hop scotch, follow the leader, and so on…

Hospitals.

On Monday when I jarred my toe, it hurt quite a lot. More so than when I broke my arm, and definitely more so than when I fell over onto some Lego last week. Because of this, I went to the doctors, who, after about a whole thirty seconds, told me it was probably broken and sent me to the hospital so I could get the bloody thing X-rayed.

At first I was happy. As it isn't open on weekends, this meant missing school, and after looking at my timetable and seeing that I miss Maths of which I probably haven't done the homework for ... all was good. I also missed Rugby which is in fact good fun, but typically it is on Fridays - the one day where I actually want it to rain. And because I want it to rain ... it never does. Seriously, if you looked at the previous weather for every Friday since the start of September all you'd see was sun. So, as well as having to put up with feeble attempts of people about an eighth of my size groping my testicles every few seconds, every time I moved I'd lose a bit more skin off my hip. And if my toe hurt too much and I had to sit out ... it'd probably start raining.

So, on Friday, which is in fact today, I had a meeting with some Connexions man who just interviewed me on my life, asked if I was being bullied and then gave me a card and said goodbye. I then jumped in my car and went to the hospital. While, of course, my mother listened to Magic FM.

When Chase Farm Hospital was designed, I don't think any one of the people doing it had any concept of the motor vehicle whatsoever. After driving around the multi - storey car park at about 0.00001 mph, my mother gave up, drove out the hospital and then conveniently found a parking space about fifty miles away from the hospital, which had a completely uphill route back to it. This was bearing in mind that my toe was about twice its normal size, and was a funny green colour.

I limped to the hospital entrance, and after being nearly mowed down by goddamn 500 different ambulances, we managed to get in to A and E. Because I was going to have an X-Ray, I happily walked straight past all the other suckers sitting there slowly contracting MRSA and waiting for the "trolley man" and sat down in the waiting room ready to lay on a bed and pose for an injection of radiation.

In hospitals, the waiting room is a peculiar place. Firstly, you seem to be the youngest person there by about 100 years. The only magazines there are covered with pictures of Brad Pitt, and everyone stares at me as though I'm the most interesting thing in the world ever (After fourty minutes in there, I probably was). And whoever designed the chairs in there ought to be shot aswell.

After about an hour and a half of feeling pain and reading the fire instructions, and watching old people eat crisps, we were given our forms, and then we were told to wait outside "Room One" after getting about ten thousand different militaristic directions along funny smelling corridors, full of people laying in beds and fat women running at you.

I was then stared at some more by a deaf person and a fat girl on crutches, and finally the door opened and I heard the fateful words;

"Mattu Bow-cha"

Obviously, the man X-Raying me had no concept of pain, because as soon I'd taken my shoe and sock off, he pulled my toe and put a blue thing around it to seperate it from the others. This was agony. Again, more so than breaking my arm or falling onto Lego.

This was okay however, as I was happily too busy dying under the foul stench of his breath to notice. So, he made me lay on the bed, and put me in positions that made me look like a porn star and then pressed a button, something buzzed, a red light came on and he told me to wait outside.

After more waiting, and being stared at by someone who resembled an Orc, he told me that it was in fact not broken and instead I had "bruised" it. Which both relieved and annoyed me at the same time. Apparently I have to go back in ten days time, if "the problem persits" of which it will. Oh, and my toenail's going to fall off apparently.

This, is why I shall make it my sworn duty to never ever hurt myself for as long as I live. Hospitals do fuck all.

Thankyou.

Oh, and;

http://danhasjoinedthebandwagon.blogspot.com/

www.arien617.blogspot.com

http://julietyeahh.blogspot.com/

www.fitzpatrickdeclares.blogspot.com

http://wankersperspective.blogspot.com/

http://x-smiley-x-sarah.blogspot.com/

www.andrew044053.blogspot.com

http://chris-ohyes.blogspot.com/

Thats all of them - hopefully. If I haven't and you've taken offense, please go and fuck yourself.

Arien, you really have started something.

Shite Music.

(Teachers that are reading this, scroll down for the blog on Rome.)

Inspiration. Inspiration. Inspiration.
Yes, I can't think of what to write, it's not exactly a surprise. The same bloody thing happens every time I write one of these. Literally, every time.
Well, I'm going to probably end up writing about "Worldly Events" and offending people, but for the moment I'll write about something relevant to my life.
Okay, so I've just been sitting there for the last five minutes biting my nails and thinking of what to write, and all I came up with is the fact that I might go and get my hair cut soon. The annoying this is that I've already done a blog on hairdressers, so I'll have to think of something else.
Ooh...erm...
Brainwave!
Chav music. I'm apparently obsessed with it anyway so it shouldn't be so hard to "rant" on about. I hate that word (rant), it's the sort of word people use to try and be funny, it's a weird fact that when I started doing these, I wasn't even aiming to be funny, it was just quite a boring afternoon at the time and one thing led to another...
Geeh, I sound like I'm confessing to rape.
Anyway, back to completely not ranting on about chav music. Actually, lets call it rubbish music, because although people that pour petrol through your letterbox tend to listen to the sound of an angry six year old having a tantrum in a kitchen, it's not the only shite music around.
My mother listens to Magic FM, which only seems to play the same five songs over and over and over again...
I'll go back to that soon, but for the moment I'll go back to not ranting on about chav music.
When the first person thought of rap music, they were obviously very stupid or having a laugh. Firstly, it should have a "C" in front of it. And there is no way that it is music either.
The worst of this is 50 cent, of whom I shall call 25 pence as I am British, and apparently I've got to be proud of that for some reason ... even though I do not yet know what reason it is. Sorry, Mr. Cent.
I searched his lyrics on the internet and then sub consequently spat in disgust as it's all about pursuing blonde women, and words that begin with "N" that I'm not allowed to put on here that he is...apparently. I would also like to merely emit the fact that I can rap better than him, but as I don't live in "da ghetto" I am not cool like him and therefore I cannot get "da honeyz." It's also annoying in the way that Rihanna has a song with ONE whole lyric; "Umbrella...ella...ella...ella...ella...ella...ella...eh...eh...under my umbrella...ella...ella...ella...ella..."
It's just stupid, and her newest song, Disturbia, isn't even a word. The bloody woman couldn't rhyme the lyrics properly so she made it up.
Now for the names. 50 cent is stupid. Rihanna sounds like some sort of STD. Dizzee Rascal sounds like some sort of Disney character. And there are also a load of people called "Mc" something. McShit for example.
It's pathetic.
And now for Magic FM. If you like Bryan Adams on loop, it the one for you. Or The Carpenters. And all they say on that bloody thing is "Mellow Magic" about five times every ten seconds. And then put on about 9,000 Dreams adverts just in case you didn't get annoyed enough.
One day, the security guard is going to have to go all the way in to that place and try to put out the fire on the stereo that has just played the same CD for the past five years, over and over again...
You watch.
Oh, and do that survey on the right, just for the heck of it.
Thanks.