Well, what a week for football. The world transfer record has been smashed in the space of around two days (and I know the Cristiano Ronaldo saga isn't finalised, but let's pretend it is), England, well, they completely battered Andorra, and a few minutes ago the final whistle went in a 5-0 serving to New Zealand by Spain.
Can you hear the drums Fernando?
Well, that's the most interesting thing that's happened in the real world, but now for my twisted story.
I headed in to Wigan town centre to meet up with some friends, only for my phone to go dead at the most convenient time, when I found the place we were meeting up was occupied by some dance troupe or something. I decided not to wander round aimlessly and decided it would be a good time to get my hair cut. Now this doesn't seem to complex, but I have mine cut if Affleck's in Manchester. A bit off the beaten track of hairdressing, but the bloke who works there always guaruntees a good chat. I head off on the train, iPod in hand, and for those of you who read my Twitter, the rest is history. But for those of you who didn't, prepare to facepalm. As I turned into the Arndale, I saw a stall offering free stress tests. Not too suspicious, you may think, but having the word 'Dianetics' put up in massive print caused a bit of... rucus. They were Scientologists, and with Scientologists, there is always 'Anonymous'. A group of protesters were spearheading what seemed a worldwide attack, and good on them. I do wholeheartedly oppose Scientology, and these drunkards were fighting a winning fight. So, I joined in for a while, and then headed again to Afflecks. After shaking off a drunk man asking for forty pence, I arrived. I had a nice chat, got a great new style and learnt where to get the cheapest drinks in Manchester. Vital info. I headed out, with the strict intention to get home, after I ate something. On my way to McDonalds, a stand caught my eye. 'Unite Against Fascism' it said. 'Stop the Nazi BNP' it said. "Ooh, that looks good" I said. I signed up, depositing my name, address, signature and phone number, all in the good name of anti-fascism. I carried on to Manchester Vic, as it was closer than Salford Central, where I intended to go (if this bores you, please bear with me, as the best is yet to come). I stood on platform five, where I always stand when going to Wigan, and saw a train approach. With 'This Charming Man' slowly destroying both my eardrums, I stepped on the train with 'Wigan' on the front. I lied back in my surprisingly comfy seat, and closed my eyes as Jamiroquai started to blare. After around half an hour, my eyes flustered as we passed Blackburn. Strange, I thought; this was never on my usual route. Still, I didn't worry. I worried when I passed Langho. I didn't know the place existed; how was it on the way to little Wigan? I removed my earphones just in time to hear: "Our next stop will be Clitheroe, where the train will terminate." Perfect. I had gone literally completely the wrong way. I got off the train, gurning in anger, and switched platforms. The train going the other way came in fifteen minutes, so I hopped on that. I realised it was the same train, just turned round, as did the driver, who glared at me. I ignored that. The conductor fell for the old "I'm just searching for my ticket" trick, and I got a free ride back to Manchester, getting off at Bolton. "Where are you? Tea is ready" a text from my mother read. "Just passed Bolton" I texted as I waited on the platform. It would be another ten minutes until the train came. Knowing my parent's poor correspondence to my texts, I also told them to head to Wallgate to pick me up. Unsurprisingly, when I got there, they arrived at the same time. I spared them the grief of my story, and just apologised for being so late.
And that was my weekend. It's now two minutes past ten, and my Dad is shouting at my brother to get off the XBOX. Back to normal! Now, with study leave, and the two remaining, and easiest exams coming up, I can look forward to four days of drinking beer in the garden, waiting for Physics on Friday. Yes, it sounds hard, but it really isn't. Back in the days of O Levels, maybe, but not now. Now it's multiple choice crap. Back of the net.
The Famous Peter
