I missed the recurring piece of advice on geek-infested forums when updating a blog: keep it consistent. The standards of my blog may have deteriorated like Never Mind The Buzzcocks has in recent episodes, but I've still a little more in me, blog-wise.
While the world is struggling with cash, newborn Blue Ivy Carter, daughter of Hip Pop couple Jay-Z and Beyoncé, has already put her own melody onto his new track 'Glory'. A kid who can relate to the lyrics of '7 Seconds' (Youssou N'Dour & Neneh Cherry) has beaten millions of aspiring artists and even more job-hunters. Hats off to the parents, they've done pretty good. And congratulations on their bundle of joy too.
I really have very little to say. My new year was filled with Jools Holland's excited hootenanny voice ('Jessie J and Cyndi Lauper are here, woo! Some country band from America no has heard of, oh yes! And an old dude will sing to my jazzy/country-style piano riffing, voila!') and a live broadcast of fireworks from London as I recovered from some bug that was going round. One of the main events that warranted celebration that I can remember attending was one of my more recent birthdays, which I really couldn't be bothered with. I had a dissertation pending and the looming thought of finishing education; no longer able to hide behind my extortionate student loan. So as a warning, I told my friends not to bother with a big party or anything fancy. They tried to talk back but reluctantly agreed. And so, triumphant, I went to town on the dissertation. I really wailed on it. If it was a boxing match between me and the dissertation, the referee would've broken it up or called it a knockout or the dissertation's manager would have thrown in the towel. If I was Manchester United and the dissertation was Accrington Stanley and my laptop was Old Trafford with the keyboard acting as the Stretford End... well, you get the idea. And so, the dissertation was almost done and my final year project presentation to a major corporation was completed in one fell swoop. All on my birthday. The load that was once perched on my shoulders had been flung against the wall, left to fester and pounce on another unsuspecting idiot with bucketloads of work left to do.
I came home, with my shirt and trousers and other clothes too numerous to mention; dropped my bag off in my student house and walked towards my room. My phone buzzed in my pocket, vibrating like a... phone. So I pick it up and it was my mate saying 'Let's go to a sheesha place and relax; we've finished!' So I agreed and got picked up, still in those presentation clothes, which were starting to annoy me. I was too overdressed to be in a sheesha bar. I felt like a health inspector there, as if I was checking to see if anyone was smoking; it didn't feel right. And I didn't like the clothes I was wearing to be honest. Anyway, I wandered in and a few of my other mates were there. 'Oh, this is nice' I thought. So we all sat and I couldn't help but feel nervous. The others knew something I didn't. Like Sherlock Holmes, I was detecting certain things... like the giant birthday cake being carried by one of the sheesha workers. It couldn't have been more conspicuous. The only way it could have been more obvious something was going on regarding my birthday would be if someone shouted 'Happy Birthday Adnan; yes, you, sat in clothes too smart for this establishment' or if someone jumped out of the cake with a sash saying 'Happy Birthday and well done on completing your work' (the person in the cake would have to do a twirl so I could read all that). I gotta admit; a wave of 'oh I can't be arsed' swept over me and as the cake was still with the sheesha people, the elephant in the room was out. Funnily, another one of my friends, who was at the event, was to have her birthday the day after. She also could not be bothered with a big celebration at this time; in fact, she probably disliked birthdays and the attention more than me. So everyone was talking and laughing and joking; with me having to talk to everyone as there ended up being about lots of people in a very tight sheesha area. After a while, the cake came out to our crowd of smoke-filled enthusiasts; all singing 'Happy Birthday' to me. The girl who's birthday was the day after mine seemed relieved as she felt as though she had dodged a bullet; surely no-one would hold two birthday do's in a row? Well... she was half right. As the cake came out and onto the desk, she became thunderstruck; her name was on it too. Relief for me as another load on my shoulders had been halved. It turned out to be a great night with all the mates I'd want to celebrate it with. And then I went home and we did a little somethin' for my birthday at a later date.
That's one of the best celebrations I've been a part of. So who needs to see fireworks for longer than necessary in the cold weather in London? More to the point, who needs fireworks? There's a moral there somewhere. You've read this much; you might as well find the moral and post it in the comments.
