The Return Of Billybrid

The exams are over, the notes have been burned carefully stored away, and my summer holidays have started. I know I haven’t written in a few months, but now that I’ve got the time, Billybrid is, once again, live.  Keep dropping in to see what’s new.  Peace out, dudes.

Passing notes.

Joanne has taken to writing full-length letters in my notebook during our study periods, so, a few weeks ago, I decided to do likewise – only, I did it over the school email system. I just found the email I sent in my outgoing mail, and I must admit, it made me giggle.

I do believe that it said something like this:

To: Joanne
Subject: RE: my cw

I feel it is high time I wrote you a letter, as yours have been a source of entertainment to me over the past few months. However, being the geek that I am, no NORMAL letter would do – it’s email or nothing. Yes, yes. I know it’s all very ironic, given that this is STUDY and all, and that I actually have more than enough work to be getting on with, but – frankly, I feel that, if I worked hard, I would just demoralize everyone with my stunning brilliance. Or, maybe it’s something to do with the fact that I can’t be bothered. Oh, heck. My kidneys hurt.

I wonder if the teachers monitor our emails? I mean, in the name of “child protection”? But maybe it’s like The Trace in Harry Potter…the Ministry of Magic can tell when he’s performed magic because they’re legally allowed to trace him, until he comes of age…and then it has to be lifted. I hope the Email Tracey Thingy has been lifted from me, otherwise I might get a certain talk we’ve discussed in the past. Tut.

Thingymajig keeps this room very cold, doesn’t she? It’s reflective of her personality. The cheek of her! Do you think she would have spoken to us like that if the wall hadn’t been there? I don’t. I reckon she’s afraid of you-know-who – another Harry Potter reference. I think I’m obsessed! I wonder if The Kraken has ever appeared in Harry Potter? I know there’s a giant Squid in the lake, like, but I’m not sure if it counts.

Ahhh! No more computers for us, ’cause thingymajig is throwing us out.

Love ya,

Billy

Her response, however, made me feel very ashamed of myself.

I don’t mean to be rude but I actually do have work to do. I think your actions are actually quite disgraceful. With the exams being only 5 academic weeks away. tuts to you. i will talk to you in 5 weeks when it is more appropriate.

You see, this is exactly why I always say that Joanne swims in a pool of common-sense.

Awkward Hug

The day the Upper Sixth English Classes handed in their coursework was a great one. We all felt so liberated. Joanne and I were beside ourselves with joy. That’s why, when we came out of English Room One to find Joel standing in the corridor, we all started having a ridiculously cheerful conversation about something that was of no consequence at all.

“…and I just about died off!” finished Joanne, flailing her arms about in that oh-so-dramatic way that only she can get away with. Joel and I laughed appreciatively, and then fell silent. Nobody spoke. It was one of those terrible, awkward moments when you just want the ground to open up and swallow you…except -

“This is crap!” I exclaimed, making the other two jump. “That awkward silence wasn’t awkward at all!”

Joel looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “Maybe we should try again.”

And try we did, but it didn’t seem to work. Joanne, the only person I know who actually swims in a sea of common-sense, came up with a theory. The reason it didn’t feel awkward when we fell silent, she mused, was that it simply wasn’t. The three of us were so comfortable with each others’ quirks, and so familiar with each others’ personalities, that we didn’t need to talk to communicate. She blows me away, Joanne. She really does.

With this in mind, we had another moment of silence, which I ruined by smiling so widely that Joanne laughed. I couldn’t help it. It felt like we were all having some sort of weird group hug!

Freaky goings-on.

Most of you will probably know (because I whine about it constantly) that I spent a week at Barefoot Republic Camp in Tennessee during the summer. However, I have just realised that there is still one story from Barefoot that has, as yet, gone untold, mainly because the whole thing is so ridiculous that I didn’t think anyone would believe me. So, anyway. Here it goes.

Barefoot was a bit like some kind of school for those who don’t want to learn. Before we went, we had to sign up for a class, which we would attend each morning throughout the week. I arrived too late on Monday to go to my chosen class, songwriting, but I was not looking forward to being branded the “new kid” on Tuesday.

When I finally found the Songwriting classroom, I knocked on the door and opened it. I found myself in a sweet-smelling room. A lady, obviously the teacher, was sitting, cross-legged on a cushion on the floor. Two teenagers sat on smaller cushions, listening intently to what she was saying.

I cleared my throat. “Errm…is this songwriting?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, dear!” came the enthusiastic response. “We’re so glad you could join us. Grab a cushion and sit down. I want to talk to you about feelings.”

Hmm. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take this class, after all.

“Y’know what?” I said. “I’m not sure about this. I don’t really want to talk about feelings, you know? Erm, I think I’ll just switch to Creative Writing.”

“Creative Writing? Oh, no, dear!! You can’t switch to Creative Writing! Why would you want to do that? Sit down, sit down. Of course you want to talk about feelings…we all do - don’t we, kiddies?”

The teenagers nodded. Brainwashed, both of them. What could I do?

“I mean, it’s nothing personal,” I heard myself say. “I just don’t want to talk about feelings. I haven’t got any, if you want to know the truth. I mean, at the minute I just feel hungry. Umm…so, if you could just point me in the direction of Creative Writing, I’d -”

“You can’t do that!” Squealed Songwritng Lady. “You chose your destiny when you filled that form in. You can’t change your destiny!”

This was getting slightly embarrassing. I hadn’t realised that filling the form in was such a big deal.

“So…what would happen to my destiny if I went to Creative Writing, right now?”

Songwriting Lady was livid. “If you want to, go ahead. But you can’t thwart God’s plan. You’re going straight to hell!!“

“Right-o!” I replied, relieved that she wasn’t going to take matters into her own hands.  The Almighty and I are tight. “I’ll see you there, then, okay? ‘Bye.”

The Creative Writing classroom wasn’t at all difficult to find – right across the corridor, in fact. There were more people in this class, and they were sitting at those American – style school desks. It was pretty cool. I was greeted by a pleasant-looking young teacher, who introduced herself as Melissa and invited me to join them. I sat down, and she gave the class a task: to write a story about the secret life of a bus driver. I knew I could do that, so I got to work, writing about a busdriver who lived with his alcoholic dog and secretly collected pencils from school children when they weren’t looking. We were asked to read them out. I was, quite frankly , appalled at the standard of writing in the class. Everyone else had basically written, “I am a bus driver, and every morning I drive a bus and then I drive it back to the bus station”.  How, exactly, does this describe the secret life of a busdriver? Melissa made a big deal of these pieces of “creative writing”, praising the students and telling them how talented they were.

I could feel every eye in the room glaring at me as I read. I was getting slightly embarrassed, actually. When I finished, there was a stunned silence. I couldn’t work out what the big deal was, until, at the end of class, Melissa asked me to stay behind for a moment. I could tell I had done something wrong, but I had no idea what that might have been. Melissa glared at me angrily through her rectangular spectacles.

“What made you write about alcohol?” She asked.

“Erm..I didn’t,” I replied, stunned. “It was just his dog. I thought it would be funny…”

“Alcohol is NOT FUNNY!!” She roared. “You do realise that people who drink alcohol go to hell, don’t you?”

“No, they don’t,” I retorted. “That’s stupid. I mean, I just thought it would be a good story. Burn it, if it offends you that much. See if I care.”

I strongly suspect that Melissa did burn that short story.  I spent the rest of the week skipping classes and refusing to run laps of the green.  I actually think I may have caused some of the leaders permanent psychological damage.  But, as Mr Kipling says, that, my friends, is another story…

Man, that is so uncool…

I suppose today kind-of marked the end of an era for me.

Don’t get me wrong, now. Don’t assume that I’ve finally decided to grow up. Please don’t think that I’ve decided to give up on playing guitar, in favour of spending more time in self-reflection. And, for pity’s sake, don’t decide amongst yourselves that I’ve taken up rugby, or swingball, or any other kind of sporting activity.

No. Today, for the very first time, I allowed my dad to drop me off in front of Slemish College in his yellow transit van.

This may not seem like a very big deal to you, but it is to me. You see, for some time, I attended a lesser academic establishment in a different part of town, where being dropped off in a transit van could have gotten you a very nasty black eye. It wasn’t much of a problem, because my dad’s not the kind of person to offer lifts regularly – but there came a morning when the roads were simply too icy to walk, and so my mother insisted that he take us. After my brother and I had attained said black eye, we vowed never again to let dad take us to school in the van, insisting instead that he should take us in his car. We realised our mistake when, the following morning, a dozen children pointed and laughed as we climbed out of our dad’s beat-up Peugeot 309. I think my brother came home with a broken finger that day.

Thankfully, the bitter weather soon cleared, and we reverted back to walking to school. From then on, whenever it was too snowy or too foggy to walk to school, our father would drop us off at the top of the Broughshane Road, and we would run like madmen to the school gates. Well, Michael would run. I would walk at my usual leisurely pace. I was rarely as keen as he was to get to school.

In fifth year, I went to America for a fortnight with the Friends Forever Project, and when I came home, our cosy little house in the ‘Clug had been sold. This presented a challenge. Not only would I have to move house in the middle of my GCSEs (actually, it ended up being on the very day of one of them), but I would also have to be transported to and from school by my dad. Apparently, Translink didn’t send buses our way, and it would be September before they could alter the bus route to accommodate us. You know what it’s like during exam time – you sleep so little that you hardly know which way’s up. More than once, I dozed off in the passenger seat of the van, to find myself directly in front of the school’s front doors. I was always absolutely mortified, but was generally able to slip off to the Lecture Theatre for some last-minute revision without being noticed.

It all seems very petty, now that I think about it. I knew I would leave the place without saying goodbye, or exchanging contact details with most people. What did I care if they saw me jump fall out of a van, no matter how “uncool” it may have been?

Anyway, dad took me to school this morning. As usual, we didn’t exchange a single word during the journey, but when he drove through the school gates and right up to the front doors, I didn’t beg him to stop. I could see two teachers and a classmate watching, but I didn’t care. I managed to keep my balance as I got out of the van, and I even kept my dignity by smiling and saying “good morning” to all of them. Yes, I think I turned a corner this morning. And at this rate of going, how hard can university be?

PS: I was actually carrying a rather large Dejembe (African drum) this morning – and it was snowing. Sorry if I gave the impression that I was being brave. I wasn’t. I just value my instruments over my life.

Valentine’s Day? Pah.

I Wouldn’t Thank You for a Valentine
By Liz Lochhead

I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.
I won’t wake up early wondering if the postman’s been.
Should 10 red-padded satin hearts arrive with sticky
sickly saccharine
Sentiments in very vulgar verses I wouldn’t wonder if
you meant them.
Two dozen anonymous Interflora red roses?
I’d not bother to swither over who sent them!
I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

Scrawl SWALK across the envelope
I’d just say ‘ Same Auld story
I canny be bothered deciphering it –
I’m up to hear with Amore!
The whole Valentine’s Day Thing is trivial and
commercial,
A cue for unleashing clichés and candyheart motifs to
which I personally am not partial.’
Take more than singing Telegrams, or pints of
Chanel Five, or sweets,
To get me ordering oysters or ironing my black satin sheets.
I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

If you sent me a solitaire and promises solemn,
Took out an ad in the Guardian Personal Column
Saying something very soppy such as ‘Who Loves Ya,
Poo?
I’ll tell you, I do, Fozzy bear, that’s who!’
You’d entirely fail to charm me, in fact I’d detest it
I wouldn’t be eighteen again for anything, I’m glad I’m
past it.
I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

If you sent me a single orchid, or a pair of Janet Reger’s
in a heart-shaped box and declared your Love Eternal
I’d say I’d rather not be caught dead in them; they were
politically suspect and I’d rather something thermal.
If you hired a plane and blazed our love in a banner
across the skies;
If you bought me something flimsy in a flatteringly
wrong size;
If you sent me a postcard with three Xs and told me
how you felt

I wouldn’t thank you, I’d melt.

It’s The Pelvic Thrust That Really Drives You Insane.

Today, at approximately 1:20pm, the strangest and most beautiful thing I have ever seen took place in the sixth-form centre of Slemish College.

You see, us sixth-form students quite enjoy having a laugh now and again. Most weekends there will be a sixth-form gathering somewhere, be it in a bar, a restaurant or a Go-Karting place. It’s all very enjoyable. Most people get along together well; I myself know only one person in the whole of the sixth-form who I would like to behead. It’s not unheard of for us to work, either, but this usually involves fun things like big group projects or psychoanalysis experiments. We are very communal creatures.

Another thing you should know is that sixth-formers like to sing. Amongst the sixth-form centre favourites are “The Tractor Song”, “I’ll Make Love To You In The Henhouse If You’ll Only Egg Me On” (it’s really not as bad as it sounds!!), “Horse It Into You, Cynthia” and Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer”. It only takes one person to hum a line from one of these songs for the entire room to explode into gleeful song. It’s really quite heart-warming. There have also been occasions in the sixth-form centre where a large group of residents take it upon themselves to engage in what is known as the “Hokey Cokey “, a primitive mating dance. This always confuses a certain stalker of mine, as he believes this dance to be called the Hokey Pokey. He is wrong, as usual.

Today, a few sixth-formers were performing the YMCA, and a smaller group were dancing the Macarena. I have, however, grown tired of these conventional dances, and anyway, they’ve never brought me much luck with the fellas. Swallowing my pride (ALL of it…I nearly choked), I jumped up, right between the two groups of dancers, and yelled “LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN!!”.

The reaction was instant and predictable. Every pair of eyes in the room was focused on me. Then, suddenly, in one great movement, everyone in the room got to their feet, and every voice sang out, “LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN!”, just as I had, only seconds before. “It’s just a jump to the left!”, screamed someone. “And a step to the right!” we all replied. Somehow, we all seemed to instinctively know the dance from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. When the whole room started doing pelvic thrusts, I knew I’d done the right thing.

I just need to think of a new dance for tomorrow.

I’m A Dalek!

Joanne nearly had a heart attack in English the other day. She’d been convinced, you see, that our Psychology exam was almost two weeks away, when, in fact, it was only three days away. You can imagine her reaction when I broke the news to her. Sheer panic.

Eventually, she calmed down enough for us to find a quiet room to revise in. We found an empty classroom, and proceeded to ask each other questions about Bowlby’s Maternal Deprivation Hypothesis. this was going reasonably well, all things considered, until we were rudely interrupted by Ciaran, Matthew and Joel Amos Obadiah. “Trying to revise, are you?” was their loud and annoying battle cry. Joanne and I looked at each other and sighed. There’s no such thing as a quiet life.

We tried to continue with our revision, but it was impossible. Matthew had plugged his iPod into the speakers and was playing Bob Marley music at unprecedented volumes. Ciaran was talking about the last movie he’d seen at the cinema. Joanne was screaming about the critical period of attachment, and Joel was…well, he seemed to be drawing a picture of Joanne, to be perfectly honest. He kept looking up at her, then looking back down at his page.

Eventually, Joanne threw a miniature tantrum. “Right!”, she said. “Right! If you boys don’t leave now, I’m going to go and get Mrs Cooke to throw you out. You’re so inconsiderate! I’m never going to pass if I can’t…can’t…”

Joel passed the paper he’d been doodling on across the table to her.

“Hahaha!!” Laughed Joanne. “Hahaha! Ha ha ha! Oh my goodness! Ha ha ha ha ha! I’m a Dalek!”

Confused, I glanced at the paper to find out what exactly she was talking about. And indeed, she was a Dalek. Joel Amos Obadiah had drawn a photofit impression of Joanne as a Dalek. The likeness was incredible.

Just a typical day at Slemish College, folks. Come and join the madness.

Revision Should Be Outlawed

I have a theory that revision is bad for the brain.  This theory has arisen out of years of trying, and failing, to revise.  Every time the thought, “I need to revise” has crossed my mind, it has quickly been snuffed out by a thousand more enticing thoughts, such as, “I need to finish the book I’ve been reading”, or, “I need to learn ‘Carry On, Wayward Son’ on guitar”, or, indeed, “I need to write a new blog entry”.  On the rare occasions when I have actually mustered up the willpower to overcome these thoughts, and sat down to do some revision, my brain has locked up and refused to concentrate on what is written on the page in front of it.

I think this is a defense mechanism.  It’s widely known that the brain is more than capable of protecting itself.  For instance, often, when someone’s trying to tell me something very serious, I am overcome by the desire to laugh.  I can’t help it – it just happens.  I know several people who are the same (although, I’m fairly certain that nobody laughs quite as much as I do).  This, I think, is the brain trying to distract you from bad news, so you can remain in your innocent state of happiness for a few moments longer.  I also reckon that some people have faulty brain mechanism thingys.  These are the somber, unsmiling people we all know. Such individuals rarely laugh.  Just as a side note, has anybody else noticed that people who rarely smile are also frequently sick?  Could this be because laughing also boosts the immune system? Or maybe they just don’t feel like smiling, because they’re sick all the time.  Anyway.

So, my theory is that the power that prevents us from revising is similar to the power that prevents us from crying.  Think about it; when you revise, you become frustrated, you get headaches, and you get tired out very quickly.  The brain must hate it.  Sure, you stand to gain good grades at the end of it all, but what are grades to a bodily function?

What is the solution?  It can’t be progress based solely on coursework, because coursework provokes the same reaction as revision.  My idea is that we get our marks based on how the teacher feels we’ve progressed.  In an ideal world, this is how all grades would be awarded.  Think about it; we wouldn’t have to do homework all year, just as long as we were really good at sucking up to teachers.  There would be no pressure, and teachers would never go hungry because there would be an abundance of shiny, red apples on their desks every morning, given by keen (but not necessarily hardworking students).  Oh, if only!

There we have it.  An antidote to exam stress, revision and homework.  If only I were Queen..

I May Never March In The Infantry.

They say great minds think alike.

They also say that fools seldom differ.

I’m not quite sure whether it was for the former or the latter reason that Joanne and I decided to walk to Tesco one rainy lunchtime a few weeks ago.

I think we had a simultaneous craving for that pasta with the cheese and tomato sauce, or something, so we dumped our bags and drifted out of the school gates, chatting nineteen-to-the-dozen and not really caring about the ominous-looking black clouds hanging overhead, even though neither of us had brought a raincoat. Our accomplice, Joel Amos Obadiah, walked as far as the Larne Road (which is right outside the gates) before glancing nervously at the sky and turning back. We called him a coward. We called him a girl. We chanted nursery rhymes at him. We didn’t know how wise he was.

Joanne and I had been so busy psychoanalysing one of our classmates (who, we have decided, has a borderline multiple personality disorder) that we didn’t realise we’d walked straight into the middle of a large housing estate. Startled by the sudden appearance of this concrete jungle, I gripped Joanne’s arm and cried, “WE’RE LOST!!” in my most dramatic voice. She rolled her eyes and shook me off.

“We’re not lost,” she said, calmly, “We’re just…um…where are we?”

“That statement fits the criteria of being lost.” I retorted. “I’m not sure. Is this Harryville or Ballykeel…or is it all the same?”

Joanne turned white. “I think,” she said carefully, her voice shaking, “if we follow this road, we’ll get to Tesco eventually.”

So, we followed a long, winding, uphill road. The clouds seemed to be in their element, growing darker and darker, moving quickly across the sky, until -

“Oh, crap,” said Joanne, shaking the first raindrop of the shower off her blazer.

“Crap,” I repeated. “Crap, crap, CRAP!”

Thankfully, we were distracted from the imminent shower by the sudden appearance of a chink of light through the rows of terraced houses. Oh, how we danced, and laughed, and sang as we neared our destination – only to be brought back to reality as the heavens opened and the rain began to pour.

Within seconds, we were drenched. Still, we soldiered on, marching towards Tesco with the kind of vigor men displayed at the fronts. And that reminded me -

“I may never march in the Infantry,” I sang, feeling our situation couldn’t possibly get any more ridiculous, “Ride in the cavalry, shoot with the artillery…”

These words were barely out of my mouth when a blood-curdling scream rang out from somewhere nearby. Startled, I raised my imaginary gun (sometimes the line between reality and imagination blurs, with me) and looked wildly around me to catch a glimpse of the scream’s source.

“Was that you?” I asked Joanne.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” She screamed. “Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh! Sing that again!”

Hestitantly, I once again sang the first line of “I May Never March In The Infantry”.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhh!”, screamed Joanne, clearly recalling a painful childhood memory. Becoming concerned, I asked her if anything was wrong.

“I love that song!”, she answered, before jumping in a nearby puddle. “I haven’t heard it since P7!”

“Bloomin’ great,” I muttered, spreading my arms to show her how wet I was. “Now, can we please go to Tesco?”

As we entered the double doors to the magical world of Tesco, I absent-mindedly began to hum “How Did Moses Cross the Red Sea?”.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!” went Joanne.

Give me strength.