Listening to Xfm at work brings on winsome feelings and nostalgia for university life (the amount of dedications for people having exams at UCL is astonishing) along with a certain amount of irritation that I can’t ring up Max and see how he’s getting on. Are you having exams at UCL? Drop me a line
Is the downturn over? I looked in the New Media jobs section of the Media Guardian last night, only to find that the amount of jobs listed had increased dramatically from one or two pages a week (a month ago) to four or five a week now. Of course none of the jobs particularly thrill me – but at least that means that some slackness is emerging – people are moving and being employed. General confidence is rising.
“Yeah, yeah, the market’s crashing and everybody’s fucked but there’s still a chance for someone with a bright idea to make a million. Isn’t there? Here are ours…” Seethru‘s ideas for making yourself an internet millionaire – pay attention Mr Stone (you know who you are).
Although the description of this article might seem slightly hyperbolic (Scientists obtain their most precise measurement of the difference between matter and antimatter, and explain why the Universe exists.) – the fact that scientists have now manage to determine why the creation of matter and anti-matter at the birth of the universe did not result in complete mutual annihilation remains astonishing.
I’m beginning to hate the way that I shave in the morning and look like comedy magnet / iron-filing beard toy by the middle of the evening. This never used to happen. And I still have my facial bald patches. What the fuck is that about?
Evening with Matt drives me into bizarre frenzy as usual. Feel weirdly psyched for an hour or so afterwards. Like I should beat someone up or something. Head full of nodes and connections and synonyms. Painfully slowly parts of head not used for years kick into gear.
I was listening to Xfm at work this morning when a news announcer starts speaking in a voice normally reserved for the death of a member of the royal family. “Michael Stipe,” he says, “is gay.” The world reels in shock at this announcement. “Surely not!” the cry is heard, “He always seemed so alive.” ThisIsLondon.com has the full absence of story.
9.45am: Take vitamin supplement pill. Light cigarette. Leave flat. Walk towards Maida Vale tube. 10.00am: Pick up yogurt drink at Baker Street, and change for Circle Line to Farringdon (back at Arehaus for a few days). Board train. Burp loudly. Feel slightly rough. 10.10am: Exit train, start sweating. Cross the road towards Bleeding Heart Yard. RUN into side street. Vomit for ten minutes, shoes / trouser-legs covered. Vomit is grey. 10.20am: Arrive at work. Build frameset for contact pop-up window.
E-mail to Kerry: “I was taking a group of foreign tourists to LA, one of whom had a tiny tiny Alien Baby. And they didn’t speak English very well and hadn’t organised a place to stay. So I had to ring you up and ask if I could bring them for the evening (there were like 16 of them), and you said yes, and I came, and when you were out of the room I pounced on Sean, and then Sean told you that I’d pounced on him, even though it seemed like he quite enjoyed it at the time and you went NUTS and threw us all out on the street. And you lived in this kind of Scooby-Doo like haunted mansion. FUCKING WEIRD, HUH?”