Wednesday, 2 September 2009

Packing - probably worse than shaving.

Anyone who has read my previous posts will know about my shaving phobia. In fact, scrap that. I'm not scared of shaving, I just detest it. If you haven't read that blog entry, waste a tiny bit more of your life now so that you know about the only people I hate more than shaving. Done? Good. I shall continue.

Where to start though?

I've always been a last minute kind of guy. During my A-Levels I found myself in the college library one Monday morning, the day after my 18th birthday, with a hangover of gargantuan proportions having to write an entire 3000 word extended essay from scratch by the end of the day otherwise I would fail Media Studies (What? It's a valid subject!). I handed my work in and eventually got a grade E for my efforts, which I wasn't unpleased with as I was predicted a grade N (essentially the grading equivalent of patronisingly patting you on the head and saying "bless you for trying"), and I had spent most of the day staring at the ceiling, popping out for a smoke every five minutes, and playing Scorched Earth on the college computers.
This aspect of my personality, as I am sure most of you can empathise with, carries on into things like packing. However, I figure that leaving it until the last minute is the best thing you can do. If I pack well in advance, I will spend days worrying that I have forgotten something. If I do it mere hours before I leave, if I forget anything I can just buy it when I get there.
But I never seem to get it right. I have been for weekends away where I have packed 7 T-shirts and four pairs of shoes, and no underwear at all. For 2 nights. Packing in my slightly more reckless youth was much simpler, it all fit into two pockets. One pocket for showering (1 can of deodorant), and one pocket for oral hygiene (1 packet of chewing gum).
I spent the first few weeks of being in New Zealand living out of a bag moving between hostels. And sometimes between rooms in hostels, from a perfectly good room to a room with a masturbating Israeli. Obviously this means re-packing multiple times over or not being able to find anything I need, which eventually leads to just throwing everything in making the next packing incident a trillion times worse.
For me, planning leads to disaster. When I left New Zealand in 2007, I packed well in advance to ensure everything was in the right bag. I was then charged $250 at the airport for being approximately 2kg's over the baggage allowance. Upon my arrival home I found that a folder full of DVD's had been surreptitiously removed by a thieving scrote baggage handler, which probably meant that when my bags were loaded onto the aircraft, they were more than likely well within baggage weight limits, so I got stung twice in one swift manouevre there.
And unpacking and re-packing bags is like unwrapping an Easter Egg and then trying to get the foil back on again.

These are just a few of the reasons I despise it so much.

And don't get me started on Summer either. The last summer I had was 2008 in England, and as is the case with most English summers, the heat to falling water ratio was akin to a quick fart in the shower.

You see, my fear of summer and hot weather stems from the fact that I used to be really fat. I mean, REALLY fat. And as all fatties know, the slightest exertion even in the coldest of weather leads to gallons of sweat and embarrassment. As soon as the sun comes out, just standing still results in a torso wetter than the front row of a Jonas Brothers concert.
My problem stemmed from an unhealthy diet and lack of exercise. It wasn't glandular, or big bones like a lot of fatties try and claim. I ate shit and did nothing. We had a local takeaway called the Spice Boys. They delivered every type of junk food under the sun. Kebabs, burgers, curries, everything a fatty could ever want delivered with one click of the mouse. I shared a house at the time with one of my closest friends, so most nights were spent drinking lager, ordering Spice Boys food and watching lesbian porn on the internet. Which in turn led to one of the delivery guys who looked a bit like Limahl from the '80s (look him up kids), constantly trying to muscle his way into the house to see what filth was on the screen this time round. Honestly, they were great (until you tried to search for their website, trust me, don't do it).
Then a local pizza house began to create legendary pizzas. Bacon cheeseburger and chips, full English breakfast, donor kebab (a personal favourite), the only way their pizzas could get any unhealthier is if they were deep fried. Which is one reason I don't go to Scotland too often.
Sweating leads to smelling. Bad. And wet patches. Have you ever tried to spend the night drinking while keeping your arms by your side so no-one can see the oceans of sweat under your pits? I tried everything. Strong deodorant, shaving the hair off, wearing white (bad - it accentuates your moobs in a big way), wearing black (worse - hotter). Nothing worked apart from fixing the diet, exercising, and just not being morbidly obese.
Other side-effects include not wanting to take clothes off in front of people. Which means most summer activities such as swimming, or water sports are ruled out for fear of people pointing, laughing, and visibly trying to count the rolls of fat preventing you from ever seeing your penis. Not getting laid is a big one too. Fat chicks always score at the end of the night, as men we are actually that shallow. Fat guys have to work twice as hard, even to score with a fat chick. It seems even they have standards.
But now, I am not quite as close to a massive coronary as I once was, I am thinking I might actually enjoy summer. It's been years since I have seen a real one. Sure, my body hasn't seen the sun since I was 11, which means after 5 minutes I would probably end up looking like a ginger who's been in the sun for 3 minutes. And who knows? I may enjoy water sports after a while. Not German water sports, obviously. I'm pretty sure since missing the toilet while drunk and pissing on my feet that I wouldn't like that.

So weighing up between knowing I hate packing, and just thinking I might not like summer, I have pretty much convinced myself to stick around NZ for the summer season. Mum, Dad, if you are reading this, and have been getting weird comments from people over the past few days about when I am coming back, this could explain it. And please can you send some clothes?

Another little bit at the bottom: Please accept my apologies for fat chicks creeping in to my blog once more. It will not happen again. At least not until the next entry.


  1. Simon O'Donnell3 September 2009 at 00:30

    That exam after your 18th birthday was so long ago you would of written it with a quill on parchment!!!!


  2. So what you saying here?

  3. Essentially, this is a lengthy diatribe about how gingers burn quicker than normal people.