Last night I “DJ-ed” my SU’s election results party. Now I have a very loose concept of the verb ‘to DJ’ and in my book I feel I’ve justified it’s use if I make a mix on a laptop and burn it to an empty disc and then play it in a club. All the while I’m drinking enough so that I finally get pissed enough to believe i’m doing it live and thus entering what I’ve self-coined as my ‘mini-guetta’ phase. This involves me jumping around behind the decks and fiddling – ever so minutely – with the bass and hi-pass in a crude attempt at looking like i know what i’m SORT OF doing.

That DJ-ing thing stemmed from the fact that this week I’ve been campaigning for a friend in our student sabbatical elections. It’s been exhausting but led to heartbreak, much like any relationship I’ve formed. This is a format that I’ve followed recently: I meet a girl, I kind of fall in love (it’s an irritating character trait, apparently one of my drunk catchphrases is ‘stay away from her, i love that girl more than life itself!’) then my dickishness comes to the forefront and I ignore people, it paints me in a bad light but i promise it ain’t intentional. My sexy sexual drives means that I treat girls much like a student election: I should get to harass them until they see my point of view and then have sex with them. Surely it’s democracy if i have sex with as many people as i can? In fact i think that’s a right of any student ain’t it? This leads me to my sex conundrum: It’s going nowhere and I do it more out of boredom than anything else. Argh.

Bit of a heavy handed opening that, crikey. I’m sat typing this listening to French synth-pop, in a room where Sainsburys shopping bags cover most of the floor and furniture. It’s almost as if I’m stuck in a giant shopping bag and I’ve been picked off the simply value shelf.

Supposedly my SU is having a foam party tonight, but judging by the threadbare budget it runs on, my hopes extend no further than some of the security squirting half empty bottles of washing up liquid (own brand not branded) into the drunken masses. A half baked idea that would make that baby from the fairy liquid adverts hang its head in shame before collaborating with from the baby boss in the toilet paper adverts and launching a stinging legal case against my SU for plagiarism (he holds a monopoly on all washing up liquid products).

Come to think of it, why are so many babies used to market products that they obviously don’t use or can’t properly comprehend? No kiddy-wink i know does any washing up, or runs a toilet paper factory in which the workers casually fall into, let’s face, life threatening machinery in the search for a nap. That baby should be fired or at least be sued for the amount of rohypnol induced deaths at his factory! If evil babies interest you, you should go read this pretty banterous article over at CRACKED (american yes, but…I’ve got nothing) – http://www.cracked.com/article_18404_6-shockingly-evil-things-babies-are-capable-of.html

I’ll just sit here and ponder. I wish I had some weed and arrested development DVDS…oh wait…