You are cordially invited to the 'packing party'...

 Another year, another holiday. The time approaches faster than one thinks and I'm at that special time of year again. Packing, p-a-c-k-i-n-g, backwards = gnikcap, I even feel the need to procrastinate in writing the word. It simply can't be done. I believe whole-heartedly that 'packing' was a challenge sent by God, a test if you will, which only takes the bravest, strongest and most anal people to complete. Even Moses couldn't be bothered to pack, he thought matza was a better substitute, to lets say, something sweet, fluffy and delicious, like Brioche, and because he decided that mopping around was better than getting his act together we now have to suffer eating bread that tastes like stapled cardboard every year. 

Before I begin packing, I must write a list of things I will wish to take, I need to look at my suitcase for at least 5 minutes, discuss it's exact colouring, find it's length and times it by it's width then compare it to the surface area of the clothing i'm thinking of taking, all in mathematical approximation of course. Usual activities that would postpone any productive movements.

As I stare into the abyss of my empty suitcase I wonder where I last was, I then realise that for years I've been harbouring sand from the beaches of France ... and they never caught me. Packing was due to commence two days ago, which is fair, that gives me five days not to pack and a good one and a half hours before we have to leave to shove unnecessary cosmetics into my bag. However, this year my mother has flown off early, and while it is she who usually ensures that my clothes and other essentials are neatly folded and labelled, I am left with father. What father doesn't understand is that leaving packing until last minute is a way of life, like white wine, or Madonna. This evening it was apparent that sister and I wanted to spend an evening doing something we were good at, nothing, yet father was having none of it.

He tried to inspire us into packing, first he said we could go to the 'packing party', what are we? 8. I was offended, I had no fun at said 'party', if this was actually some sort of shindig I would be the awkward one in the corner, with my hands in my pockets, dancing alone to electro-pop and staring at the breasts of women half my age as they walked past, my mouth half-open to reveal my glow-in-the-dark braces. No fun. So naturally, any sort of packing was delayed, I needed to go elsewhere and remind myself that I'm not actually a pre-pubescent male teen at a house party.

But was this nonsense over? Of course not, the fun was to continue, my father's efforts pursued when he ensured we play 'packing games'. One of us had to guess the volume of the cloths we were intending to take, and then speedily retrieve said clothing from our wardrobe and deliver them in quick hast back to the suitcase. I lost the first time, luckily the game was only ever played once. I think with time and effort this could be perfected to become a very popular Olympic sport. Hurrah. England takes the gold in speed-packing, the Medina sisters have done it again. But I tell a lie, neither of us are packed. 

This blog, for example, is another method of procrastination, and upon realisation of this fact I stare vacantly at Mr. Purple Wheelie in the corner, crying out for me to penetrate it with my fundamental holidaying material. And with this I leave you, not to pack, never to pack, but I am feeling rather peckish...

I didn't find the golden ticket... this time.

Chocolate; sweet, succulent, rich, tasty. As I came home from yet another torturous day of school this afternoon I needed a treat, a yummy juxtaposition to the mentally scaring afternoon I had prompting me to find a spiritual high ground (Jewish Studies), and so I did. For fifty pence I picked up a kitkat from the news-asian down the road, which still confuses me, fifty pence for a chocolate bar, the value! Back in the day (the day I don't remember), during the Aztec reign you could buy a slave for 100 cocoa beans. I returned home excited to unwrap the silver alluminium cage which surrounded my precious, yet small feast (and maybe even find a golden ticket) but what-ho? Something was missing. Then it hit me, I don't know why the most obvious of priorities hadn't occured to me, in a way, I was slightly ashamed. Like the great Englishman I am, my kitkat needed a companion and what more appropriate then a cup of steaming tea? I'll tell you, nothing.

Thus began the longest two and a half minutes of my life, boiling the kettle. There is a lot of nonsense I did in these 150 seconds, I informed my sister of the fact that 'the sooner she gets sectioned, the better', I folded some laundry and attempted to lay on the ground next to my cat trying to learn his cunning and mysterious ways but he sprinted lightly out of the room, I know when this happens his ambush has been unsuccessful and I survive another day. Then the little clicker turned off red which indicated my time was up and I had failed to save the world again. I yoke (that's right, yoke). 

Now began the process of making a cup of tea, the recipe may seem simple, but you're wrong. As I've grown  up I've realised the complexity behind the 'average' Twinnings mug.

1. Put tea in mug (no water just yet).

2. Wait 10 seconds after the kettle is boiled, this avoids the scorching bubbles missing the cup or burning your hands, then poor in around 215ml. (Leaving a sufficient amount of room for milk).

3. This part some may find difficult, so perhaps ask or call a friend for help while completing this step. Depending on how you like your tea is relative to how long the teabag remains in the mug. I wait around 53 seconds for my tea, yet my father is more of a 46 second man, you see. The UK average is 1 whole minute. If this amount of time seems daunting to you, perhaps take a nap before undergoing said activity.

4. When you have timed your cup just right (and by right, I mean 'precisely') remove the teabag and pour in a dollop of milk. Yes, a dollop of milk, some of our less experienced colleagues may be bewildered and intimidated by this measurement. I referenced the dictionary, it means 'a lump or blob of some substance', interpret it how you will.

5. Stir the tea and enjoy, after participating in such a strenuous process you deserve it.

Then came the time that I had long (3 mins: 23 seconds) awaited, I picked up my kitkat, unwrapped the little red paper, then the foil and dunked. The moment my first finger of chocolaty goodness graced the mug my mouth began salivating, like a hungry wolf desperate for sweet relief. I freed my stick from this burning cage to find it wet and glistening, slightly melted, and I bit. Then it came to me, a rush, the feeling of indulgence, I had nourished my craving. Did you know, one in seven 15-24 year olds claim life isn't worth living without chocolate. Well, they're idiots, we always have wine. But what if there was not any wine or chocolate, but I will try not to worry my readers with the idea of an alternative dystopian future. Fortunately, 66,000 creme eggs are still being produced per hour. 

There's just something about chocolate, it's an aphrodisiac, I won't claim to know the precise chemical makings behind why we get horny from a dairy milk bar but I will claim to have experienced it. You often here people joking about the question 'chocolate or sex?', is it wrong for me to say 'both', or is that greedy? If it was the case, then I would have to pick chocolate. 

I think I'm preaching, there are tastier foods, but readers, don't forget that the first chocolate was made in Bristol, Engand, 1848, so be happy and patriotic about something so tasty. Sit at home, watch Chocolat or Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory and be content in knowing that yet again, the great British people are responsible for another awesome thing. From one Englishman to another, "put the kettle on". 

Qu'ils mangent de la brioche

It seems to me as though people are asking me for a story. So far my blogs have been going nowhere, and like my life, I like it that way... Yet I also like popularity. I enjoy spending my Sunday evenings refreshing the stats button on Blogspot.com and finding that I have three readers from America, and I shed a slight morose tear when I find that those readers have fallen to one. So if its a story you want, then, my humble droogs, it is a story you will have...

One day there was a rabbit, his name was Dave. Dave was a simple soul, not particularly intelligent, or liked for that matter. He had his loyal band of brothers, but they were drab with very little charisma or zest for life. Dave worked in the carrot factory, mashing long orange vegetables all day for bunnies and other small furry creatures that weren't able to consume solids til over the age of 9 months.

Dave, like many other rabbits of his generation had gone to bunny school, then to university, but he always knew what was imminent... death, lol, JK, a wife. Dave had one tooth longer than the other, and very unbridled hair that made him look something of a Rabbit tramp. His mother had always referred to him as 'Dave, my precious Hobo', which was understandable, because the day, the hour, the minute in which this story is set, Dave was wearing trousers which fell messily to reveal the tops of his Superman underpants and a square white shirt covered with carrot stains from his lunch.

Dave was walking down the road when all of a sudden....

'Let them eat cake', Marie Antionette, one of the most infamous women in history never gave the people what they wanted, and neither will I.

Note to readers, when I typed in 'like a carrot' on google to aid my story-telling, this is what came up http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Carrot-like ... I don't know whether it was the true randomness of this page, or the fact that everything written sounds exactly like my boyfriend.

Preaching Purple

Every year I feel as though maybe going to synagogue won't be as torturous as I remember, maybe I won't feel the urge to rip out my eyeballs when I see a load of over-excited 50 year olds fiddle with a book, or try and saw of my feet every time I'm asked to stand for more than five minutes and listen to a load of incoherent dribble that may as well be an in-depth description into how the Teletubbies were created, and not the world. Usually, however, I'm able to do all this in the comfort of a Shul of which I am a member, however, today I was thrust into unknown territory, utilising nothing but a socially awkward nature and a pair of 32E's to defend myself with.

As I walked into this strange and magical place (I often use the term 'magical' to describe my opinions on religion; I don't believe in magic) I found myself meeting people from my school, or people that I could recognise the face and not name, or people whom I've heard the name tossed about yet never really met , or individuals who were the siblings of someone I had met at a social gathering a couple of years back, or someone's aunt who knew the person I was sitting next to. I know, if you think the writing is hard to follow, imagine the actual situation.

The 'community' exhibited seemed like a competition for wealth and social stature, maybe it was everyone wearing the same black little hats on their head, but my urge to rebel raged in the afternoon when I thought to die my hair purple. Now, dying my hair specifically purple was not due to the novelty factor: Mya Purple. HAHAHA :|. Purple in religious terms symbolises death and mourning, for example, during the Christian holiday, Lent, churches are often decorated in purple clothing. For me purple was an indication the death of any individualism in Judaism, and it also looks awesome. One could argue that I was being alternative simply because it's cool, and that Hollister is actually fashionable, and coincidently everyone has a Blackberry just because one day there was a big sale at the Carphone Warehouse, and literally nothing is official until it's been set in stone on facebook, but if they argued that, I would classify them whole-heartedly as an uneducated troll that's been living under a bridge for far too long. Maybe some readers will get offended, and yes, in fact I am being a hypocrite, owning a blackberry and posting this very blog straight to facebook. Neither am I stating that any of the people who comply to these typical tags of Judaism are intolerant or nincompoops, i'm plainly trying to illustrate a point: that the Jewish community lacks in diversity. I feel as though my sordid observation and potentially too detailed view of my day needs to come to a coherent finish, so I will digress...

One of my favourite quotes from Ronnie Shakes sums up my qualms about Religion, in a comedic and generally dickish mannor, "One day I fear I will meet God, he'll sneeze and I won't know what to say"

I thought Mum and Dad weren't in.

For the readers that aren't aware; I have sex. Shocking, I know. So, this evening I had invited my boyfriend over to undergo the usual couple-like things: watching television; making dinner; performing the old in and out; having tea and biscuits, that sort of thing. As Boyfriend and I participated in the third agendum of the evening, we were making no attempt to muffle our apparent (and I use 'apparent' intending no offence to my other half) pleasure. As the moans grew louder and attempting to maintain the sexual positions became more strenuous we didn't notice the subtle sound of the key turn in the lock, nor the more obvious footsteps in the hall, nor the slamming of the door as my parents tried (in vain) to make us aware of their presence. We didn't notice; we continued.

A few minutes later we heard a loud series of bangs coming from what we thought to be the neighbouring bedroom. If this was so, it would have been my sister trying to encroach on what Borat appropriately refers to as 'sexy time', and we weren't prepared to stop simply to acknowledge her chastity (that potentially can be seen as an advert to any male subscribers).

Forty-five minutes and 2 condoms later we congratulated each other for the good work. As one does post-coitus I had to tell all my Facebook friends about the wonderful intercourse in which I had just been involved and so grabbed my computer. As I lifted my laptop lid I was saluted by this message from my sister:

If you wouldn't mind keeping it down up there with sam, would you? The whole house (including mum and dad) can hear you. We're trying to watch tv.

FUCK, was my initial thought, which ironically got me in trouble in the first place. I informed Boyfriend about said message who simply starred at me in awe. After deleting all the contacts in my mother's phone last week and now de-flowering (pah) Mr Medina's eldest daughter, his position in the family remains questionable. Needless to say, I Facebook-chatted Ruby to ask if what she had informed me of was true. It was.

It's been 2 hours, I haven't left my room, and Boyfriend is looking for an alternative exit, through the window perhaps...

First day back.

As if forcing a load of unmotivated socially retarded teenagers to do exams wasn't enough 3 months ago, the process of a slow and soul-destroying routine begins again. When I entered JFS's iron gates today and was greeted by the customary Simple-Jude begging to see my ID and flinching when I reached inside my bag as though I was a terrorist about to pull out a gun was somewhat comforting. I was honestly slightly excited to start Year 13. Although Summer 2010 (lusms) was awesome, I missed learning, reading, Mr. Bremner <3.... At 8.30 this morning, I realised all my pre-conceptions of a new start were utter bollocks. Spending the first two hours of my day doing meaningless administrative work (which just means playing games on miniclip) was a bundle of fun. But wait, JFS stealing valuable education time from me? Never. Hold the phone, no, that's not all they're prepared to steal, I've worked out that this weekend I will be spending over £200 in WHSmiths, let alone the £42.50 I will have to spend to re-mark one of my drama papers that was 2 marks off an A, which the school would have been prepared to assist me with if it wasn't for the new con-dem government. Yay you Cameron :|.
Then there was that familiar feeling, oh, you know, when you're sitting in English, and you recognise that every word the teacher is saying will somehow help you when that fateful June afternoon arrives, yet you simply can't fight the sudden weight of your eyelids... and... and... ZZZZ. Hmm, that's why I got a B at as level...  nothing changes :/.
I left school after 5th period today due to the lack of organisation from the JS department (well there's always a silver lining) and trudged mindlessly down the windy path as though a dementor had sucked out my soul. Maybe if I had the same spring in my step that I had this morning I wouldn't have missed the 204. Grrr.
So, you see where I'm generally coming from, another year jamming with the uniform Nazis, the Miller teddy bear, and willingly being aware of the fact that we are simply another cog in the works so JFS can remain strong in 'The Times: Official State School Results Table'. Happy (Jewish (Free School)) New Year, it's going to be a good'un...