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You'd think that in the midst of exams and a looming research proposal I'd have had an even shittier week than usual. You'll be pleased to know (I'm sure you know this by now) that I've had an equally mediocre week as every other to date. Shock, horror.
The highlight of my week has been exercising my civil right to vote. I decided to vote by post back to my home constituency because I'm not going to vote for a representative in a part of the country that I don't live in half of the time, and won't live in at all when I inevitably have to sign on next summer.
It has been entertaining, however, to see the whole furore over Ukip and their quasi-racist discourse around the 'non-nationals'. Worryingly, there are similar stories of manic xenophobia that my mum comes out with, which is hilarious considering that she married an Irish immigrant. That doesn't count as justification for your blatant racism, mum.
As for me, I bloody love immigrants! Our native population of island-dwelling layabouts is simply too scared of losing jobs to foreigners who happen to do those jobs better, epitomised brilliantly by the Premier League. I don't care how good a person's English is; as long as my plumbing works, I'm really not bothered.
Britain's inability to do a good job of anything was highlighted by two things this week. Firstly, by my English window cleaner, who I'm pretty sure asked one of my housemates "to get his cock out". Secondly, by my postal ballot paper, which didn't even fit in the fucking envelope. Of course I'm going to tick the box for the Sod It, We'll Take Anyone party when even our electoral services can't even print the right size paper. The name of that party also happens to epitomise my love life.
As for the rest of my week, I finished one exam and celebrated in true student fashion by going out and getting absolutely shit-faced. It ended up with me sitting with my best bud Beth at a taxi rank for over an hour before we finally decided to give in to our British idleness and call one ourselves. Inevitably, a taxi rocked up as soon as we finished booking one.
Beth will think that she's cool for getting a mention in this, but I hasten to add that she reads a book about giraffes whenever she feels lonely.
I decided to be a bit more cosmopolitan in my celebration of handing in my research proposal by going shopping in true man-shopping style. This involved me going into a shop, picking up the shirt that I wanted in my size, and buying it.
Then I managed to get lost in Marks & Spencer's labyrinthine escalator system. After walking up one floor, I naturally went to the nearest lift, which took me back down to the floor I'd just been on. It took me more time to get to the menswear department than it did to actually buy the shirt.
And, of course, it pissed down on my way to the bus stop, so I nipped into Topman to shelter from the rain in a bid to stay edgy, which was difficult with an M&S bag in my hand.
Ten minutes of tie-dye later, current fashion trends had made me sick enough to stand in the rain and wait for my bus, where I sat at the back and played Pokemon on my Game Boy in a bid to look edgy again.
Some of the 'lads' who were chatting about 'footie' near the back of bus certainly gave me some disparaging looks as they tried to work out whether I was about ten years behind everyone or simply ten years old (but if they knew that I was 20, it would have meant that I could be both! Haw, haw).
Either way, the last laugh is on them; their conversation moved on to how parts of Bambi should have been censored. Like the nation as a whole, lad culture has clearly gone to the dogs, and I'm going to get drunk again to forget about it.
Well, you know what they say: all roads lead to Willow. I think Constantine said that.