Statement: Jai. That is me.
The implication of having a MySpace means I'm about to try and explain myself to you all. I might as well ask an otter to explain the existence of Findus Crispy Pancakes.
Not going to happen.
So here I can either note down my current likes and dislikes and hope you get some semblance of a hint of what I'm like, or just type bollocks.
Perhaps an amalgamation of the two?
HENSHIN A-GO-GO, BABY!:
Driving in the rain.
When the tomtom works perfectly.
Aimee squealing with delight.
Marmite.
Using a telekinesis spell to successfully make your house look pretty in Oblivion.
Dance eJay 7 with SingStar microphone.
Maximo Park.
Kangol Two body spray/Davidoff Echo smellies.
Toothbrushes with tongue-scrapers.
Eddie Izzard.
Playing Boggle on my DS on the loo.
Shoes.
Hugs off Marc when I've not seen him in ages.
Coronation Street.
Pegg and Wright.
Green Tea. Pretentious, but nice nonetheless.
When the hair works.
The Tube.
The spot I reserve for myself in Kerstin's bed.
Shane's nosebleed.
Roadtrip with a selection of specially-made CDs.
Unripened nectarines.
Sambuca with Big.
Mozza.
Making movies.
Chris panicking.
Amy 'Cat AIDS' Winehouse.
Dv8 with no bar queues.
Shrigley.
Stranger Than Fiction.
Marvel, not DC.
Snobs with fewer-than-the-usual amount of 16 year olds.
My love of comicbooks, videogames, cartoons and toys is not fashionable, ironic or subversive. I have simply always enjoyed these things.
BLARGH:
Getting misheard at bars. Gin and LEMONADE, not soda water, and definitely not Coke. Cretin.
Fake tans.
Illiteracy. I thought about spelling that wrong, but I shall try to be more subtle with my use of irony.
Deal Or No Deal beginning to outstay its welcome.
Baked beans.
Old PC games you used to love that don't work on XP or whatever anymore, and just sit there, teasing you.
Separate chargers for everything.
Having to chop and change the songs on my itty-bitty iPod.
God Of War. It wasn't good. At all. Buxom, computer-generated toga-clad ancient Greek bints with exposed jugs of epic proportions do not a good game make. I'd like to think.
My University. It is actually shite.
Lack of storage space.
My hair, in general.
Lack of money/redundancy etc etc.
Inbreds.
Complete dearth of musical talent.
Members of the general public who couldn't find their own arse with an atlas.
Members of the gay community who have found their own arse (probably with use of an atlas) but have subsequently shoved their heads that far up said orifice it is unlikely they will ever emerge intact again.
Missing DVDs.
That ginger flid Max from Eastenders who looks like Sam the Eagle out of The Muppets.

A Poem:

Muscle Mary, quite contrary,
How’d your pectorals grow?
With creatine and amphetamine,
And anabolic steroids, you know.

This is my final university project. It is a little surreal, but observe - you might actually like it: