Renegades! Maverick journos create scandal, don't do very much!

“In 2010 a socially short, submoronic clique were outvoted by the rest of their university on an issue they didn’t like. These people promptly escaped from anybody's notice whatsoever to the Lancaster underground. Today, still not wanted by anyone, they think they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you percieve a problem, if you know no one else will care, and if they can be bothered, maybe you can talk to the In For A Penny (formerly known as Project X) team.”

There are some things that some people should never attempt. Socially inept and underachieving sloths such as this A-Team-esque clandestine group, who probably see themselves as conspirators when in fact they're just giggling charletans behind the curtain of their own delusions, should not try underground journalism.

An Evening With Strapped F. Cash, Esteemed University Wallet

A scene that could be seen very soon at Lancaster University, if the student body were a single interviewer and those in charge of mispending university money were a collective, hive-minded wallet. Which, given the intelligence they've displayed in building the LICA building, they may well be.

Interviewer- Good Evening, Mr Cash. Thank you for joining us.

Strapped F. Cash- (rattles contentedly) Not at all. My pleasure.

I- If you don't mind we'll jump right in with the questions?
SFC- Of course.

I- First off, let me just ask how you're feeling. Are you well? You're not feeling depressed, hollow, empty are you?

SFC- Not at all. I feel full and fit as a fiddle, honest. There's plenty more where I came from.

I- Perhaps you could explain to us, then, how it is that so many things are unable to be paid for? Important things, like new department equipment to replace 19th century projectors, or rebuilding the current main road onto campus that's in slightly worse condition than when it was ploughed in 456 B.C. by the oncoming legion.

The pain! The Pai*hup*n... FFS

Four days. That's how long it takes for the affliction to really set in and begin to ruin your mind. Four days.

Not even a week, but four days. 96 hours. That's the measure of the fragility of human sense when faced with the dreadful, harrowing and honestly quite physically painful (after a while) affliction.

"And what is more- You'll be a man, my son"

It was National Poetry Day five days ago, and what with being back at uni and having an absolutely no spare time for about a fortnight I missed doing any sort of post about it. Still, even though this is late it has given me an opportunity to write something a bit more than "It's National Poetry Day. Brill."

This is because of two things. One, I've been thinking a lot about Kipling's If, pretty much my favourite poem of all time ever since we were preparing a stand at work a couple of weeks ago for NPD where each of us had to pick our favourite poem and write a small reason why. In my defence, the question was sprung on me before I'd had any caffeine as I walked in the door. Which is why I picked Ozymandias by Shelley instead of letting my brain kick into gear.

Anywho, I was stuck with that choice. But in reality I would probably have plumped for If. And given a few things that have happened over the last few days (all, you understand, my own doing) I've realised I like it all the more.

Welcome to the six o'clock olds. Good evening, I'm Blonde Airhead.

It may strike fear into the hearts of many incredibly middle class mothers and upper class Lords who seem to defy death by only ever napping briefly (normally during important debates), but it is unfortunately a fact- some students actually do like watching the news. Every now and again, or at least attempt to keep up with it.

This in itself, as with so many formulaic posts on the infinite internet, isn't a problem or even that scandalous, but it's a statement that leads oh so smoothly on to the bulk of this grumble, so I've put it first.

Budding Bookseller Returns to the Northern Wilds!

So the summer has drawn to a close. A watery, humid, intermittently gale blowing gargling last breath of a season that, let's face it, never lived past toddlerhood (probably hit by a car or something).

The holiday did bring one great thing though. I got five weeks work at everybody's favourite bookstore, back with the best team of people you could hope to work with. Including the mental American, the retail mage, the management mother hen and drill sergeant, the patient mother with a newly acquired limp, the triathlete hard nut and the Yoda with the social ineptitude and no real role there.

Lots of people say they've got the best job in the world, and while it's all relative I can safely say for me there's nothing better than working with them in a cathedral of books and loving every bit of it, so here's to them! For ten/eleven weeks I'll miss it, because now I am back in the bosom (the frigid, frigid bosom) of the northwest coast. Here's to Lancaster, for my final year of a degree in a town that never seems to see the sun or peak above freezing. It's evening time, it's raining hell and that's ok.