Sinister: it's written all over my face

[patrick doyle]

wotcha,

how are you?

I recently attended the big sinister weekend. Caitlin Pigtails was there.

Other people were there too; some even played football, whilst I merely 
retired to the shade to climb a rather unimpressively small tree. The hoarse 
sound of trainers against gravel could be heard in the distance as Miss Lucy 
Brown and myself watched from afar. The Pinefox was obviously prepared for 
such an event, looking rather school-boyesque in his wee shorts and t-shirt, 
while some idiot was clearly not, shuffling about in his Dr Martin boots, 
tsk. However fun watching a live game of football was, I found myself being 
distracted by the geriatric roller blader with an remarkable Knack (m-m-m-my 
sharona!) for skating in circles (backwards, no less) repeatedly without 
appearing to grow bored for, what I remember, as being quite a long period 
of time. As the rain began to get heavier, we decided that heading back to 
the pub where we could watch football without getting wet would not be a bad 
idea.

A rumour started to circulate within the pub that the Delgados would be 
appearing on stage before the mull historical society (whoever made this 
decision wants firing) so the lovely Ms Sunnyset, the fantastically shy Mr 
Stefano, the divine Ms Idleberry, the adorable Ms Brown, some other guy with 
floppy hair and glasses who wants to be in Jackass and myself used public 
transport in the form of a taxi to get to the Royal Concert Hall just in 
time for the Karen Dunbar gig. She was pretty great; she made a few 
slip-ups, like stating that Hate was the first Delgados album, saying they 
were still *working* on Hate and pretty much having the cheek to stand on 
stage and be such an absolute prick. But what can you say, her harmonica 
playing was second to none.

Monday the 19th of May was officially my last Higher exam, which therefore 
means I can leave school whenever I want, maybe I’ll wait till the last 
minute, make them think I’m gracing them with my presence for yet another 
year or perhaps I’ll leave tomorrow, put them out of their misery. I decided 
last month that I’m not going to University this year after all; the thought 
of studying at Sunderland doesn’t particularly appeal to me so I’ve decided 
on taking a ‘year out’, in which I plan to move to the city of Glasgow where 
I’ll gain some work experience whilst building a stronger photographic 
portfolio, thus giving me a better chance of getting into the University of 
my choice – hooray.

(at this point, you might be wondering what relevance the subject of this 
post has to what I’ve been writing, who am I to keep you in suspense?)

The topic, as I’m sure you know, is from the quite wonderful I Want the One 
I Can’t Have, by the Smiths which seems rather relevant to the way I feel 
right now. I do indeed, want the one I can’t have and it is indeed, driving 
me mad. So mad infact that it’s quite hard to think of anything else, which 
is why I’m sitting here at 4.30am writing about the weekend as a feeble 
attempt to take my mind off things. *



Failed.



Anyway, it’s now 5am and this coffee won’t drink itself.


Cheerio

Patrick x



*It was also Morrissey’s birthday when I started this post.

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