There's nothing more fun than throwing paint over someone, dressing him in a jumpsuit and forcing them to run through college chased by police

...Seriously. Because Art.

So, it's the first week of sixth form (for me and my new unavoidable bus buddy Ginger Ninja sister number one) and what's a greater way of starting the year than having my bus fail to visit our bus stop; followed by seven other scared, confused, first day, first years all look with wide desperate eyes at the only third year student around and expect me to magic one up.

Instead we magicked up two lovely mothers in a Cleo and a Mini Cooper. With that palaver over we're all, surprise surprise, late and instead of being able to run in and beg forgiveness from the foundation teachers, I've found myself walking with seven mini disciples asking me what to do, where the hell are they and oh God how, just how did a learning establishment get a Starbucks in a matter of weeks, just across green and a building away from the onsite Costa!? 

Not that I'm complaining, but all we need is Pret A Manger Maggie and this

will become all-out war.

So when my bus disciples finally make like a fellowship and split I'm left to grovel down into an art department, that unusually seem pretty laid back when I come in fifteen minutes late (more on the leniency of Foundation Art later). And so I'm introduced to our first art project: Painting people and making them dress stupid. 

Alright not technically stupid. But subjectively I find that anyone whose going to dress someone up like this after painting them are really, really making them look stupid:

This is how desperate bohemians get their rent paid.

 

Boo Ritson is pretty darn ruthless when it comes to people's dignity. If you're lucky she'll cake you enough that you're unrecognizable but then after a period of paint slapping and camera snapping she says "right, done. There's a towel over there!" 

  

"...Img Cmant  mofvhg." 

"Yes yes! Just over there! Go clean up!"

 

"I sthehd I Cmant mofvhg!"

You get the idea. Our task for that week was to do the same thing to some other unfortunates in our group. 

This. This was my exactly how I reacted. Meteorologists are still trying to get hold of me.

 

 

So a day of evil scheming later we decide a plan of evil action and choose our willing victim within our little group. We have to choose a stereotype to portray him as and as we're bored of Chavs, Cheerleaders and Goths...

 

Unless it's this Goth - Richmond is god damn awesome.

 

 ....we  instead go straight to American Prisoners.

 

Finally as a few days pass (yes days. These things take days to do - it helps that we can casually waltz in and out of lessons to do all things practical - like buying coffee which takes longer than usual with the new difficult decisions of whether it'll be Starbucks or Costa), we get photos of him with paint and jumpsuits looking like the above Boo Ritson victims (plus some god damn terrible tattoos done by yours truly). Then we get the news: We need to do some outside.

 

As in, outside as in out of the art building as in where other people are. 

 

Roll on some more diabolical laughter in my head and we're pulling him outside to go to the smokers area. Why the on-campus smokers' area? Well, when they call it 'The Cage' you know it's been designed specifically to put you off smoking. It's also makes the perfect looking prison yard. 

 

Some snaps and confused first (and second) year looks later and who comes waltzing through but another fellow model with her group in police uniform and caked on (literally - layers and layers of paint) face. To my amusement, before she was in proper view I heard one or two underage "crap!" and "shit!" from behind that quickly change to "what the fuuu...?" To make it seem fair, imagine this approaching you and asking if there's something on their face:

"'Nice paint?' What paint? What the hell are you talking about!? 

Seriously that isn't funny - I have self-confidence issues!"

So they do their snaps (some with our model - perfect match) and then we're all there, two groups standing around a painted cop and convict complete with handcuffs and running trainers.

 

"I have a great idea," says our convict. 

 

We all agree. 

 

A couple of minutes later I'm giving a thumbs up that travels and suddenly bursting through  the ref at lunchtime and jumping over seats is an orange jump suited, handcuffed, escapee with a police woman in hot pursuit. I follow, hearing confused silence from behind and pass through corridor filled with "Agh! Drama students!" "What the hell just happened!?" that continues all the way to the bowling green and around back to an art room in the path of parkour and ah-what-the-hell-lets-do-it-ness.

 

Life settles down once more. Models are left with the excruciating task of waxing their face to get paint off and I find myself left with the agonizing decision of whether to buy overpriced sandwiches at  Costa or Starbucks. 

 

It's only when I'm on the bus once more, sitting as far away from a ginger sister as she can from me as I overhear first year conversations a couple of rows behind me (just as I heard a little in the library):

 

"Did you see that crazy prisoner being chased?"
 

"The one with the freaky skin?"

 

"That's the one..."
 

They talk about other things, I go back to my crazy iPod music tastes and then finally at the end: 

 

"Oh yeah I'm [so and so]." 

 

"I'm [insert name of your choice here]."

 

 It's good to know that when you throw away (or help to throw someone else's) dignity out the window, as I do every day, you're hopefully making a talking point for others to begin on for the better. When you get the chance, do throw you're dignity away with style, not just for others to group about with, but for yourself too. The more you chuck it out and bring it back in, brush it down and realize you actually threw away nothing at all, the more you feel free and the more fun life is.

 

 Awkward Penguin just turned awesome

 

Seriously, you lose you're dignity way less than you may think.  

Why it's good to sometimes get lost (in Scotland)

When Dad gave me and my sister of twelve years free reign to choose where the heck we wanted to go for this year's holiday we could have picked anywhere. I mean anywhere, literally. We could have, with reasonable effort, have talked him into taking us to New Zealand or Australia, far flung Africa, or at the very least Barcelona or the sunny side of Europe that had rejected all bad weather to the small detached isles that they could forget about.

So when we both said Scotland he was at the very least mildly surprised. In fact most people are mildly surprised to find out that while they're trying to flee the God awful summer beginnings we had, me and my sister were choosing to run into the heart of the matter.

To try and justify myself, I have inherited the pessimism gene from my Dad (no matter how much I try to deny it) and summer looked out to be crap and to stay crap with a heavy downpour of crap on top. As such it was only logical that if we were in Scotland then at least we would be expecting God awful weather and not sulking if it was. If it was sunny at least one day then we could stand around as shocked as everyone else and wait for the world to end, pigs to fly and a teapot to fall to the ground in a smoldering Twinning's fruit scented crater as it fell out of orbit with Jupiter. Plus we just wanted to see the Loch Ness monster and God dammit I got pretty darn close:

(If you just squint your eyes and ignore the rational minded observance and conclusion it's

 a duck then you have all the proof you need -  you unbelievers)

Others may also gain one more interesting fact from this photo apart from it being unconquered evidence to appease my eight year old self that Nessie lives:

It was bloody glorious.

I mean for the entire two weeks. 

So naturally the first thing my English set mind could do from crossing the border was moan about it. Where was the torrential rain!? The cloud cover!? The sodden walking sponges also known as sheep!? When I go to the Highlands I expect gale force winds as I cling onto a mountain side, fighting the downpour to reach a remote inn that can only serve me haggis (No haggis, but there was black pudding on the first hotel's menu that prompted theological debate whether one could morally eat it for half the morning). All this happening whilst screaming to get any small murmur or remark heard. Instead I'm getting landscapes of this:

Fluffy clouds on azure skies!?

And this:

 Sunbathed woods under more fluffy clouds in azure skies!?

And to stab me in the back this:

Glorious Utopian Glen Affric* including yet more fluffy clouds and a third helping of bloody beautiful azure skies!?

Scotland you lied to me you beautiful bastard.

It turned out we did have something to complain about as our car's alternator belted its last and died half way up to John O'Groats. On a Sunday. Two hour car haul back to a Perth Motel and we were left stranded for a day and a half trying and waiting to get it fixed.

So after that palaver the holiday was back on and for some mad reason we decided to head back to the highlands At least for the first time that holiday it decided to go ballistic and chuck it, just as it happens we were feeling very Scottish and tasting many a brand of whiskey at The Famous Grouse Experience (Irn-Bru for all you kiddies and twelve year old sisters). Then we decide why not take another look at another Loch (Loch Tay) and somehow take a wrong turning onto a longer routed A road. 

We grumble and go on a bit with this road when my key (and almost dire, hysterical in the depressing sense) map reading spots a tiny little road marked on the map that turns off the road we're going and heads straight to the Loch. Obviously we're in rural Scotland so we're not expecting a very easy road to navigate (this road had signs just before it saying it's impassable in winter), but we decide to just give it a shot with nothing better to do (and missed first time passing, turning and driving very slowly to spot it again).

So we begin to take this road. And then we find ourselves in what seems to be the actual untouched highlands:

  These last two were actually taken back at civilization at a place just after the south end of Loch Tay. It's called the Falls of Dochart and apparently it wasn't good enough for our snooty guidebook.

These pictures do no justice for the moment you find a space to park at the top of what seemed like a mountain, and open your door to the sound of absolutely nothing (apart from those untamed sheep that like to run along the road right at you in a group before turning chicken and parting before you can oblige in taking them all on). There's also the strange moment you don't experience very often when, after seeing The Famous Grouse you actually stumble into the bush and actually see the same species of grouse fly for it. As a southerner, the sight of a Grouse that wasn't on a Whiskey bottle was a new experience.

By that time of the day it was beginning to cloud over it was beginning to (finally) look like proper Scottish weather. But rain or shine, I discovered, whether on the motorway or on a smaller road, Scotland is one bloody beautiful country - especially when your alternator hasn't conked out and you're not stuck in a hotel room. What I learned here is that (in Scotland at least) don't be scared of the tiny roads (so long as you haven't got a caravan on the back or a ridiculously oversize vehicle), because just as annoying as some get, others can become the most rewarding experience that you get from your travels.

So the next time you’re heading north from Crieff after a Famous Grouse Experience along the A822 towards Dunkeld and after you pass the small village of Corrymuckloch and take the next left signposted as the way to Glen Quaich towards what seems to be the end of the road with snow warning signs and pull over places, don’t be too quick to pass it up (unless you have a caravan - seriously, those things are a bitch on small roads).

*Dog falls walk, Glen Affric. It's just west from Loch Ness along the A831 and is a hidden gem which completely outscores Loch Ness on beauty.... however it's lack of a monster means Loch Ness wins any day).

Wow... Who the hell thought a blog would survive this long untouched - seriously it's like some Tukenkamun tomb in here or something...

...Yeah I've never been that great with work commitments. Just talk to my brother who's still badgering me for a read on my non existent novel (I've swear I have written a lot... just not all in the same story... or two... or three......... or fifteen... yeah, never get this habit I have of starting a new idea the moment it gets in your head if you want a write a book).

So... one and a half years later I thought maybe I should put something in this blog once more instead of leaving it to crumble into the misty ends of the eternal Internet of no return.

So what's happened in all this time? Lets see: royal weddings, college days, procrastinations, a self published short story compilation from a creative writing group, AS level exams, AS level results, death of guinea pigs, new baby guinea pigs, second year, the tragic choice of which A level to drop, the tragic thought that maybe I should have kept the A level I dropped, A levels, getting drunk for the first time, never wanting to get drunk again, A level exams and everything in between.

Oh yes, I've kind of finished sixth form which now renders the entire point of this blog's title a tad bit useless.

(Instead of a cat imagine a guinea pig and this applies to me)

I got a respectful BBC in English Lit, Art and Design and Philosophy (mind you, not before waiting for an hour in front of a dead Internet screen while my college's website crashed to public and to staff, leaving me stranded in Manchester, four hundred miles away from college awaiting to see my results while everyone else who had been up an hour before me were running around in elation on Facebook and what have you while I was left banging and gnashing my teeth in impatience on my Auntie's coffee table).

It seems that most people I hang around with think you need at least one A grade at A level to be anything successful in life (although mind you, I do hang around with  people who's aspirations are to be doctors, as well as two certain friends who are now packing their bags for Oxford and Cambridge). However, I still seem to be on my unconditional place in Foundation art within my college (summer work galore). And then of course the absolute obvious hit me:

(Not sure if amusing, or just destroying the world with overused internet memes)

This year the blog title still makes sense.

It also means I'm stuck for a another year at sixth form while my friends gallivant off to Uni in all directions while I sit awkwardly in the ref without even an awkward turtle to complain to.

(This'll probably be me in about two months when I finally realise most of 

my friends have their phones turned off as they daydream their lectures away.)

So... Lets see if I can survive a third year of it all and if I can actually keep a commitment to this blog up to actually write about any actual experience of sixth form college, tips about it, daydreams, interesting thing, vivid hallucinations, some show off artwork and basically life in general.