18 September 2004

Oh My Wicket's All Sticky

Could my mind ever lose its train by the light like that?
Been spinning a siren wine

Sooooooooooooo, amid the Glaswegian accents and the so-called "bad weather", I am thoroughly enjoying the odd little creatures I am beginning to call my fellow countrymen. For your utter information, Scotland is a nation of warriors... It's even written on them, literally in the traditional Pictish manner. Of course this makes sense to anyone who knows the etymology of the Picts, or even if you just have an ounce of the most subdued common sense. The word Pict of course is from the Latin, because the Romans ran up to these hard-asses and on turning tail and running back down the highlands realized they were for the most part covered head to toe in tattoos and paint. Now that's a race of people after my own heart if nothing else. Utterly amazing people, or so one would think. Yes I slept all of 3 hours on the plane, thanks to some bloody American idiot who couldn't shut his mouth for the benefit of others. Once that ordeal was well past and my knee decided that it could actually move again, I took to finding the residences, an adventure in and of itself. A long trip up and down hills and looking the wrong way numerous times when crossing because my brain has atrophied in soo many areas that its far too funny. But after wandering aimlessly for about 3 miles, I came across yes, a beautiful piece of architecture. Tall, but not so tall as expected, a bit gaunt really, but brilliantly bright and shining. No you twit... Not the damned building, but the German hottie that walked me to the the central services building. That's right, certifiable hottie material. Sad to say she's not the only beautiful person in this area. Within a half hour of waling about the roundabouts and Byres Road and Great Western I witnessed a mixture of by far the most numerous beautiful people in the world, or at least enough to outnumber everyone in the state of Ohio. Yes, that means you, you poor souls. As lovely as you might seem, you cannot compete with the European blood. No seriously, you'd smell like butt if looks could smell... Ok, I kid, I kid because I love, ok, maybe I don't love, but that's only because as a male of my species I'm incapable of such things.
Enough of the German girl, she'll return no doubt, because all women wont me... shh, don't pop my bubble, it's lovely. At any rate, I set out further to be the most productive as possible given the impending jet lag. Yes, well, that was just retarded of me. The banks here hate me to say the least. You literally have to jump through hoops, first a big one (very easy if you're not vertically challenged) then a smaller one (midgets forget it, I can't do, you can't do it, the Smurfs have a fraction of a chance). So it's all very simple really. In order to have a bank account you must have a confirmation of address. Because as we all know, the banks want to make sure that if need be they can send you all your money back. Wait... waaaaaaaaaaaaaaait. Ok. Just think about that for a few minutes. So since I'm not a residence of more the 3 years in the UK, I cannot have a.) a debit card and b.)a chequing account, yes chequing, not checking. So that kinda leads me into a nice small corner financially. Alas, in order to even get the minimum at these lovely institutions you need to present your passport and initial deposit. Oh wait, did I not tell you before... You'll also nee to submit to a complete background check and also you must present offer of work/course acceptance depending on the situation as well as confirmation of address in the UK. Well, I may have told you to have the letter addressed to the bank on the phone, but what I didn't tell you was I lied and it should be addressed to yourself. And they can't just fax the letters over, its too easy to forge, because there have been a rash of forged deposits lately, and we just don't want money that doesn't belong here. Quick, someone give me a gun, oh wait, UK outlawed them... and they're cracking down on binge drinking... I'm fucked.
Well, so I figured at least I could get a mobile (pronounced mobyle, kinda like tire is spelled tyre but pronounced tyre... It makes no sense I know, cos then shouldn't it be pronounced tir or aspofjgmsdgnd, some friggin consistency is all I ask), but I keep hitting unforeseen brick walls. The mobile phone company wants proof of address as well in order to enter into contract for monthly pay (aka. the cheaper route) yet that from the university won't do. No, no, it has to come from a bank, meaning I have to have a bank statement, meaning I have to have an account at a local bank because nothing from outside the UK is good, it has cooties, no seriously, it has a disease called cooties, if they touch it they scream at you moronically. These are my adventures. Coupled with the fact that my boxes of clothes and textbooks are slow to arrive, well, its enough to just make me mad. Not irate mad, I was there from the plane and the bank people, no no, I mean mad mad, like howling Murdock mad as opposed to BA Barracus mad. So tired of typing this, but I figure at least it will narrow the question field down. So read it dammit. In the meantime, I'm gonna go get me some of that German chickie. Or maybe a lightbulb for my freakin lamp!

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