The end of the street

Yes, it's sad but it's true - we've reached the end of the street for T Street! Sadly it just doesn;t seem like it'll ever be the same again any more - now that Stu and I have left the street behind and Em and Luke have their own blogs (and Jimmy probably won't even notice that we've stopped writing the blog) we think it's time we went our separate online ways...

The time we've spent writing T Street has been an incredible and unforgettable time for us all, and I hope we'll keep the memories of them with us forever. Just to round things off nicely I've chosen some of my favourite posts as a kind of edited highlights, like the delightful videos people are shown after they get kicked off Big Brother, only to discover that their "best moments" consist of them burping, farting and cooking macaroni cheese.

So in no particular order here are the best of T Street!!

• The one where it all began - http://trumpingtonstreet.blogspot.com/2005/05/pilot-episode.html
• The one with the dinosaur - http://trumpingtonstreet.blogspot.com/2005/06/dyou-like-it-hot.html
• A picture you probably WON'T find in the Corpus prospectus - http://trumpingtonstreet.blogspot.com/2005/06/hall-sucks-big-time.html
• Our most-commented-on post ever - http://trumpingtonstreet.blogspot.com/2005/05/wig-for-sale.html
• Nicci lets her hair down. A LOT. - http://trumpingtonstreet.blogspot.com/2005/06/nicci-at-230-this-morning-ha-ha-ha.html

Well then, I guess th-th-th-th-that's all folks!!

Mucho love and kisses,

The Benet Crew (aka the Trumpers) xxx

Ooh goody, it's a great big long update!!

Hiii!! Well it's been a long long time since I last posted and I decided it was time to revive T Street a little bit, see if we can reclaim some of the readers we used to have.

So what's happened since my post about the kettle explosion?? As you may or may not know, several days after the kettle exploded, the final strand of sanity keeping me going also exploded, as a result of attempting to go for 60 hours without sleep whilst sitting very difficult exams, and I finally made the decision to leave Cambridge. (Which means I am no longer an official Trumper but what the hey.)

So I was called in to see Schofield, who I expected would be in full child-of-Satan mode, red eyes flashing, fire blasting out of every orifice etc, but actually he was quite nice for once and listened to me rattling on about how much pressure I was under and how it didn't seem worth it because I hated the course anyway, and he gave me a tissue to wipe my eyes (I admit I got a little emotional) and told me that he was sure I'd land on my feet and find something else to do that I enjoyed more.

Later that day my dad picked me up and took me home (mum didn't come, he said, because she was FURIOUS. She absolutely could not believe that I could do this to her, she didn't think she'd ever be able to accept what I'd done, etc etc. I knew she couldn't be THAT angry because otherwise she'd have reacted like she did when I came out - ie pretend it never happened.) Got home, listened to her ranting for a bit (OK, she obviously WAS angry as she was being a real bitch and I don't really want to think about some of the things she said; let's just hope she only said them cos she was angry.)

Sooo the next day I went to a Job Fair in Nottingham. It was held in this very posh new hotel and was full of very unposh people called Chantelle and Darren who were walking round with lots of leaflets and their mouths hanging open. I booked myself in for a "group interview" at John Lewis the next day. On my way back to the bus stop I popped in to the JobCentre to find out about whether I needed to sign on or not. Queued for 20 minutes to speak to a big butch lesbianny woman behind a desk who asked me my surname and then said I was in the wrong centre "cos we only handle A-L." Walked to the other JobCentre and spoke to another big butch lesbianny woman (seriously, are they breeding or something?? Turkey baster sales must be up...) who said I was in the right building but had come in through the wrong door and told me to go round the other side of the buliding. When I finally got there, a very small very mincing man took some details and gave me a pack of forms almost as big as himself to fill in and bring back a week later.

And so I toddled off home to prepare for my group interview.

The group interview took place in this big conference room, there were about 15 applicants and 5 interviewers there. A very tall thin woman who you could just TELL was a real bitch said that the first thing they wanted us to do was to talk to the people next to us for 5 minutes and then introduce them to the group. Easy enough, the woman next to me was this really friendly 40-something lady who was very chatty and we had no problems. Which is more than can be said for some. One particular girl, Holly, sticks in my mind:

"Errrrrm, this is....... Laurel... is that your name again? .... err and she's doing, I think, is it... criminology... at Nottingham Trent....... Errrm...... she likes - did you say you liked swimming...? Ohh she likes going for bike rides and going out drinking..... Err......" (She obviously knows she's forgotten something but instead of helping her the bitchy woman just keeps looking at her with an eyebrow raised for about another 30 seconds, by which time Holly is practically in tears from embarrassment and Laurel decides to step in and help her out by saying what Holly's forgotten which is her age.)

Other things we did included adding together £2.47 and £3.66 and addressing a shipping label. That should give you an idea of what a fun 2 hours it was.

Blah blah blah. Not much happened over the weekend except that my parents convinced me I ought to get in touch with the universities the next week and see if there was any chance of a last minute place on a course. Only 3 of them said yes - Leeds, Hull, and Southampton. So I got in touch with the lady from Leeds who invited me up to talk to the Admissions guy ASAP. And the rest, as they say, is history.

I've now been at Leeds for a whole week and I am really, really enjoying it. The course is fun, the lab work is interesting (as opposed to Cambridge practicals which were of the form: prepare 20 different solutions of the same protein, bung them all in a machine and then paste the printout it gives you into your practical book) and I think I'm in the right place. I miss the Trumpers like mad of course but I promise I'll come and see you as soon as I can!!

Anyway, the latest news is that I've landed the part of Pianist in the Tetley Hall production of Grease this December (as in the actual piano player, rather than some unknown bit part in the play itself), which should be fun. Rocky Horror would've been much better as Tetley's grand finale (it's being decommissioned at the end of the year) but what the hey. The only really disappointing thing about Tetley is the general lack of gays around the place. I'm told that there IS another gay guy here but that he has a girlfriend(!?) There's a lovely guy on my course actually, though the fact that I fancy him probably means he should be made to walk round ringing a bell and carrying a sign saying how unsuitable he is for me (or that he's straight, as usual.) But time will tell I suppose.

Right, I hope I haven't bored your tits off too much (ie I hope you still have at least one of 'em left) but I think that's all my news for the time being. And come on fellow Trumpers - POST for goodness' sake!!

Dom xxxx

AAAAAAAAH FUCK

Sweet Jesus I've just had the shock of my life - my kettle exploded before my very eyes.

OK I'm exaggerating, but it was still really scary!! I put it on to boil while I looked up photos from Abercrombie & Fitch catalogues (yum yum). For some reason it didn't stop boiling!! By the time I realised it was still on and looked at what was happening, there was steam literally pouring out of the spout and there was this really strong smell of electrical burning. I used my foot (clad in a thick-rubber-soled shoe from Asda - safe but relatively inexpensive to replace should the need have arisen) to kick the switch off then stood well back.

So I may have escaped this incident with my life but - what the hell am I gonna do without coffee?? My exams are in four days now!! BASTARD FUCKING KETTLE!!! AAARGH!!

Speakeasy

Last night is yet another of those nights I would rather forget. And, fortunately enough, the amount of alcohol I drank means that I've already forgotten the majority of it. Here are the bits I'm still trying to erase from my memory:

Whilst Tuesday night would normally be cause to boogie on down to everyone's favourite nightclub, Life, it's currently closed having its name changed to Club 22 (not sure why this takes a whole week but then again my nightclub management experience is admittedly limited). To fill the hole that this would have left in the lives of so many, one of my romance.ucam.org acquaintances threw a party, and Jimmy convinced me to go along.

So I get to the street, it's a little alleyway lined with terraced houses. A little way along there is what looks like a Pagan ritual going on - a bunch of about 15 people sitting around a stuffed owl on a pedestal and several candles. As I walk up, the host comes forward and finds me a seat, next to a somewhat pie-faced straight guy. No sooner have I sat down than an amazingly drunk posh girl comes and parks herself on the straight guy's lap. He says she's sitting on his keys, would she mind shifting slightly?? She does so and he smiles very broadly. Dominic suspects that it might be something quite other than a bunch of keys she's on.

The atmosphere of the party can best be described as campy. Loud fifty-year-old men braying with laughter, posturing guys in their mid-20s each trying to be more droll than the others, one very hot pianist, Jimmy's friend Ed, Jimmy himself, and me. And lots and lots of cider. Every time my glass was less than half full it would magically be refilled, and so after about an hour I was very... merry. At this point several people left, including Jimmy and Ed, and were replaced by a gang of gun-toting (ok I made that up but they looked a bit scary) lesbians, who promptly broke into the churchyard on the other side of the street and sat down round a grave to swap stories of their past sexual exploits, which included such choice tales as sex in libraries, on public transport, etc. My own story of getting down and dirty on a canal bank seemed very tame in comparison, let me tell you.

After a while I went indoors and listened to the pianist playing. Don't remember much about the music, but his arse looked fabulous pressed against the piano stool. By this point I'd been moved on to vodka shots and was feeling very morally loose. Would definitely have allowed piano-man to take advantage of me. Fortunately he left shortly after his little rendition otherwise I'd probably be out trying to get the morning-after pill right now. Not long after this I got the distinct impression that everyone was trying to get me drunk in order to deflower me without me noticing (probably not true considering that half the remaining guests were lezzes) and so I yelled at everyone that I was leaving straight away and ran off. The host asked me if I was worried I might do something I would regret, and I countered that I was simply worried someone ELSE might do something I'd regret. Sharp as a tack even when numb with drink, that's me!!

So this morning of course I woke up with a vile hangover and had to face up to what I did. Email to the party host to apologise for making such a spectacle of myself, and a new crush on a nameless musician I once met at a party. As any of the more pretentious party guests might say: C'est la vie, non?

Update: Have remembered being asked if I smoked at one point. In an admittedly somewhat pathetic attempt at looking suave I said I was trying to quit. Someone gave me a ciggie and then offered me a light so I held it in the flame for a while and nothing happened. Piano man raised a gorgeous eyebrow and told me I had to suck the end. "Oh yeah, hahaha, only joking!!" I said, though I did get the impression he wasn't totally convinced....

All aboard!!

Have just learned from the hallowed pages of this week's heat that Britney Spears is planning on calling her baby London Preston if it's a boy. Am I alone in thinking that London Preston Federline sounds more like a railway company than a child??

Monday Monday

I'll tell you the worst thing about being stuck here though - I'M MISSING CORRIE!! The TV room is closed for refurbishment so I'm gonna have to wait two weeks before I can see what Sean's new man looks like! :(