I've got a degree. Oh, so have you. And you. And you. And you.

I’ve neglected to inform this blog that I recently obtained a degree in Journalism. I’m not entirely sure of what’s going on in Darfur or what the fuck Marshall McLuhan meant by ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ media (I’ve always found it to be tepid) but still, I can conduct presentations based entirely on the ambiguous sexuality of Spongebob Squarepants and be awarded a 100% pass rate for my efforts. I can’t think of a better way to spend tens of thousands of pounds.

I could’ve celebrated in the usual manner: y’know, a spot of racketeering, blackmail, money laundering, gang warfare, pimping, extortion, bribery, kidnapping and smuggling – the same old shit.

Instead I felt massively underwhelmed and made some underwhelming flapjack and a cup of underwhelming tea and went to bed while it was still light outside and got up the next morning for another day of underwhelming telesales work and then some more underwhelming tea and possibly another piece of underwhelming flapjack.

So yes, everyone has a degree. It’s no big deal. I’ve done nothing worthwhile with my life for four years besides intermittently conforming to various student stereotypes and notching up vast reams of debt. It’s over now and that’s that. I never spent my summer holidays inoculating impoverished children in the third world. Sorry.

Graduation ceremonies are exceptionally boring. I had to walk around all preened and uncomfortable in a silly black dressing gown while my parents took lots of pictures and moaned about the things that people above the age of fifty love to hate. It was essentially a shambles. No one knew where they were supposed to be and my contemporaries and I were shepherded down long, empty corridors like the intended victims of an academic holocaust. Instead we were treated to two hours of eczema-inducing tedium, where the only respite came in the form of a beautiful, inspirational and downright dazzling speech by George Monbiot.

Afterwards, I felt a little teary and stared into space for a while. I believe this is commonly known as ‘reminiscing’. I should’ve worked harder. I should’ve appreciated the opportunity to expand my pitiful knowledge base. I shouldn’t have done that, that or THAT. I should’ve written, drawn and photographed more. I should’ve looked after myself better. Bah.

These feelings lasted about fourteen minutes. Not one to be entirely enveloped by an unfeasibly large jiffy bag of despondence, I went and booked myself the cheapest flights that the internet could muster. Fortunately for me, I was headed to swanky Milano*. It was hot in Milan. I got bitten by flying malaria vessels. I don’t think I’ve got malaria. I can't be bothered to write about my holiday.

And now I’ve no job or permanent abode and I’m going to have to go and live with my parents until I learn how to face up to reality. I aim to be paying council tax within the next five years.

THE END.


*And if anyone even mentions my carbon footprint I’m going to poke them in the ear with something pointy and abrasive. I’ve not left the country for two years AND I don’t drive AND I recycle everything AND I turn the lights off when I’m not in the room AND I only boil enough water for my cup of tea AND I’ve thought about putting a brick in the cistern but decided against it for fear of inducing a plumbing catastrophe. You can just piss off. We’re all fucked anyway.

Pets

Today I very nearly bought myself a pet Quail. We’d deliberated over what type of pet would be suitable for student house full of transients (me), newspapers, wires and men with large beards.

Ferrets: Far too urine-soaked and hyperactive. Animal ADHD and piss don’t make the best of bedfellows.
Chipmunks: Too unpredictable. When was the last time YOU encountered a chipmunk at close range? They look as though they’d think nothing of attaching themselves to your head like a furry woodpecker and gnawing a large hole in your face. Perhaps I’m getting them confused with beavers.
Cats: Too high-maintenance.
Dogs: As demanding as cats, only far more stupid.
Tortoises: I like the idea of watching television with a tortoise on my lap, but they’re slightly out of my price range. Also, I’m not enamoured with the thought of being tremendously outlived by one’s pet.
Various assorted small rodents (Guinea Pigs, Hamsters, rats etc.): Boring, wriggly and potentially life-threatening due to their propensity to chew through electrical cables.

I’ve no idea why I thought it’d be bad news to adopt one of the above as a pet, but a good idea to buy a quail and cherish it like a stunted, mute foster child who just so happens to lay blue eggs every day. I finally came to my senses when I considered my lack of career, permanent abode and financial prospects. I don’t want to have to take a small bird to job interviews with me; I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment.

One day I’ll have a menagerie of weird and wonderful beasts. Until then, I’m aiming to visit a Llama farm in the Forest of Dean and quite possibly sneak one home with me. We could ride through the streets of Cardiff like that naked woman did in Banbury Cross, except I’ll be very fully-clothed and riding a Llama, not a horse. We could throw sweets at children (in a non-threatening, completely unpaedophilic way) or shout messages of support to disheartened drivers as we weave through traffic jams with colourful ribbons in our hair/fur and bells on our feet/hooves. It’d be beautiful, just like a scene from Into the West, only Gabriel Byrne wouldn’t be my dad (shame) and I wouldn’t be an Irish traveller and it’d again be a Llama and not a horse I was stealing AND I wouldn’t ride it to the sea and let it drown. That’d just be mean.

I do quite want a Llama as a matter of urgency. If there's any Llama thievery in South Wales or the West Country it's got ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with me. I can assure you that this post is merely theoretical and I'm not concocting some hideously complex plan to steal any Camelids*.

*I'm going to use this word in polite conversation on a regular basis from now on:

'Janet, that woman over there looks very much like a Camelid'

-OR-

'Damn these bastarding South American ungulates. They come to our country, steal our women and eat our grass. It's really not on. And Llamas are the worst Camelid of them all. I'm almost certainly going to create a petition on the Home Office website.'

-OR-

'I'm immune to your camelidic charms, Llama-face.'