“Hi Tony, it’s me.”

“Look George, I know it’s you. You always call at 3am.”

“Oh, sorry. Listen Tone, the war’s over.”

“It is? Did we win?”

“O’course we did. We decided that weeks ago.”

“Yes, of course. Look, what happens now?”

“Well, somehow our oil got under their soil. Dunno how, but we sure should get it back now.”

“Ye-es. France and Russia won’t like that much though.”

“Let me be honest with you Tone, I’ve never trusted France. Shirak. Irak. There has to be a connection.

“Like Iraq and Al-Qaeda both have ‘Q’s in?”

“They do? Hey wait…”

“George, you have to give me something to tell the Public. They’re getting noisy again.”
“You’re still in power, right?”
“Just! Last month, they attacked me in my own constituency!”
“God, what are they, anarcians?”
“…Anarchists? No. They’re just a bunch of leftist students. Said they were from the Durham Social Forum. There would’ve been more except half didn’t get up in time. It was a close shave, George.”
“Constituency… that’s like your home-state, right? Don’t you have family there to help you?”
“It doesn’t work like that here George.”
“Hell… just tell them we did it for democracy then!”

“Hey Tony, how ya doin’?”
“Hello George. I’ve been talking to Allistair about this democracy spin. We’ve gone one step further. To show the British people how lucky they are to live in a democracy, we’ve decided to hold an election.”
“What? Are you crazy? What happens if you can’t afford to win?”
“No, look, trust me, its only a local election. City councils and so on. We’ve given people in *important* counties two votes. But the clever bit is, there is only two candidates! And they are both Labour!”
“That is pretty cool, Tone.”
“That’s what Allistair thought too!”

One of the most bizarre experiences of my life has to be this: sitting around in Nicaragua (a country not famed for good relations with the US) with a bunch of American, British and Aussie backpackers, drinking ‘Nica Libres’ watching US soldiers covering the head of a toppled Saddam statue with the US flag, and cheering about it, on Spanish CNN. Feeling somewhere between revolt and relief that we weren’t at home. Nica Libres were a political statement in themselves – ‘Free Nica’, a combination of Nicaraguan rum and American coca-cola. Mutual embarrassment at our nationalities was not a good feeling.

Something possessed me to download Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights" tonight. At last – someone who made a career out of being marginally insane! The song was written long before I was born, and at the time, she was just 19, younger than me and already weirder than me. Strangely attractive though. I had to study Wuthering Heights when I was 17 and doing English A-level. I often felt it was rotting my mind. Kate Bush is proof my suspicions were correct. However, playing that song still prompts slightly minced people to re-enact her wonderful video, which is never a bad thing.

Re-read my May 2002 entries today. Strange to think I've been rambling away on here for a year now. I started my first month writing about Hilzo phoning me up about threesomes with her and D. At the time, I had never met D. Since he know seems a permanent part of the furniture, the concept of not knowing him is completely alien. This prompted me to ring him and Hilzo. For all those with satellite or cable TV, my bestest buddy Hilzo is now responsible for the lighting on QVC 24hr shopping channel. Now that really is pure entertainment!!

On my last day in Nica, I got the chickenbus to Managua, squished in between a woman with a piglet in her skirt, and my companion for the day, Albert-from-Holland. They played That Song on the radio. The lyrics go "porque estoy aqui, en el lugar de siempre, en la misma cuidad y con la misma gente? " – ‘why am I here, in the same place as always, in the same town and with the same people?' Soundtrack to my life, again. Didn't exactly encourage me to go home. I could've stayed on that bus forever, I was so happy.

"George, look, we have to decide what is going to happen next."
"But it's obvious! Bart's gonna catch Mrs Krobople and Principle Skinner in the cupboard, and he's gonna blackmail them!"
"No, look, George, we have to talk about the Middle East."
"Awww, but I wanna watch the cartoons!"
"What happens now? Iran seems to be brewing up trouble, and Syria's always appeared suspicious. They helped out Saddam, didn't they?"
"What are you saying? Iran? I thought we'd just got them!"
"No, George, that was Iraq."
"Oh, hell, in that case, just go with Syria, the others are too confusin…"

I don't dare watch the news anymore, or read the paper. It just makes me sooooo angry. Who appointed Bush and Blair as policemen of the world? In 1997, I went to Syria. The only thing I really remember was that it snowed in April, and the wind was so strong we couldn't sail into the next port in Israel, so we had to stay longer. We all had to cover our hair and wear long sleeves and loose trousers. I liked Syria. I didn't notice it being part of the Axis of Evil. Please don't bomb it, St. Bush!

How many times will this statement appear in my 100words? I have a job! And this one actually seems to be genuine. They seem honestly friendly. My trust is given somewhat reluctantly considering my immense bad luck with jobs, and the sheer number of people who seem to take it upon themselves to screw me over. In the past year, I’ve been a barmaid, a telemarketer, a telesalesman, a dodgy door-to-door salesperson, hotel cleaner, copy-typist, receptionist, filing clerk, handed out flyers in the street and been a coffee “barista”, and now, I am an “assistant chef” for Moods café, Chester-le-Street.

Splop time. Splopping is a wonderful pastime. Along the same lines as vegging or slobbing, but with added extras such as wine, cuddles, couch-potatoism and WaitingForThePhoneToRing. I haven't allowed myself the luxury of a good splopping session for a while, what with The Coursework Mountain and Exams looming on the horizon. But now I can safely say, It Is All Done. I've handed in the last piece of coursework for this year. I officially have NOTHING to do except four exams at the end of the month….and there is no way I am thinking about them now. Justified Splop time!

To do list: Delete everything you said about employment at Moods on Saturday. Bank cash-on-hand payment as soon as possible before they change their minds. Spend at least a day wallowing in unemployed self-pity. Memo to self: Trust no-one. No-one is ever going to give you a decent job, at least not one that you actually enjoy. Jobs that seem hopeful and that you do enjoy are actually just figments of your imagination. You will always do something wrong, even if you don’t know what. Pessimism suits you. Being a hermit looks more and more like a viable career option.

My God! The Hypocrisy!!
Where did fifteen out of nineteen of the Sept 11th hijackers come from?
Saudi Arabia.
Where is a lot of Al-Qaeda’s funding coming from?
Saudi Arabia.
Where has the latest terrorist attack been?
On American compounds in Saudi Arabia.
Where has a hereditary absolute monarchy?
Saudi Arabia.
Where are 50% of the population denied the vote?
Saudi Arabia.
Which country supplies the US with a lot of its oil?
Saudi Arabia.
So, which countries suffered Western invasion and enforced regime change?
Afghanistan and Iraq!!
How is this supposed to convince these countries to trust America? Hypocrites!!

OOOPS, I did it again… time management. Somehow, I've managed to misread my giant, hugely conspicuous multi-coloured wallchart. I have been floating around going "ooh, I don't know what to do with myself" since all the coursework got handed in last week. "Why don't I get a job?" "Why don't I volunteer for the North East Social Forum?" However, I've just noticed that my exams aren't weeks away anymore. They are in less than a fortnight. Somehow I've subconsciously added in an extra week to the month. Just like I do every time there's something stressful on the horizon. PANIC!

Been thinking about weddings again, since the dreaded Venue Brochures have finally arrived. The only place that I could actually visualize us getting married in, is a 60ft long INFLATABLE church you can hire. Except Carl disagrees, saying if we were gonna be that tacky, we'd go to Las Vegas!! Plus I am paranoid about inviting Seonaidh with her spiky heels. Venue issues aside, I am also thinking about dresses. WHY ARE THEY ALL WHITE FOR CHRIST'S SAKE? I am far from pure, innocent and virginal. I want a wedding-shaped dress, just in PURPLE. Is that too much to ask?

Today's white noise: Farewell the ashtray girl, the camera is the worst ever invention. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Filled with dopamine, the traveller's gene, she dreams of Nicaragua, the clackety-clack of they keyboard hammering out shared speciations, as gorilla metaphases, painted with FISH to human-specific probes, interbreed coefficiently whilst tolerating another shit mood. Will Ebay negate the need to stir my feminized femoral heads, or will Conoco's practical explain it all? I threw out more than half but the chocolate brownie test assured me of the imminent Popigai impact, back in the summer of 69. I'll see you at the bitter end.

Last night was spent celebrating the termination of Carl’s coursework, it was all handed in yesterday. Matt-The-Cynic looked chirpier than I’ve ever seen him, not a single sarcastic comment all day. The others just looked stressed and knackered, so there was beer and pizza in abundance. But today I have a mild hangover. It is Saturday, film-night, and so we’ll no doubt go for our weekly pints and kebabs tonight as well. Tomorrow Mike is coming over, all the way from Norway and demands cheap Ale. I feel bloated, zitty and fat. Deep breath: No Alcohol Til After Exams. help.

Mikus is here! Turned up in his funny little car, a white soft-top 1972 Triumph. Suits his 70’s outlook on life. I decided the No Alcohol pledge starts tomorrow, honest. We made sure the pseudo-Norwegian felt comfy back in his homeland, by stuffing him stupid on Carl’s Infamous Giant Roast Dinner, and Bel’s patented Calorific Cheesecake. We also escorted him to our favoured local drinking establishment, where he was somewhat shocked at the numerous Women Of A Certain Age, wearing NotALot except fake orange tans. Norwegians just don’t do that! It’s telling that his favourite beer is called Old Peculiar.

What would I do if I ruled the world?

1. “Join” Europe.
In fact, while we’re on the subject, if I ruled the world, I would ban any sort of border controls, total freedom of movement and trade. If you don’t like where you are, just leave. Try and rid the world of any concept of nationalism and patriotism, and make a United States of the World. Cultural differences would endure, sure, but this idiotic sense of “endangering national sovereignty” would be gone. If you identify yourself only as British, American, Indian, Chilean, you are limiting yourself to microscopic proportions.

I Do Not Want To Revise. There are a million other things to think about, a million distractions. Happy thoughts, like Carl being home and not too stressed at last, weddings, and the university ok-ing my Nicaragua project. Less happy thoughts, like Tom being pissed off after my temporary resignation from the Social Forum. I want to spend hours devouring information in Lonely Planet to fuel my obsession, or trying to find a cheaper plane ticket to Managua, writing long jealous letters to Sue about coming back. The very last thing I want to do is read about damn monkeys!!

Feeling guilty. I wasted time today fiddling, applying for credit cards, sorting out the Social Forum, doing emails. Anything but revision. Plus Carl was being incredibly sweet, I couldn’t ignore him. I’m feeling awful about going off for another two months and leaving him behind. Plus, I will have to leave at the end of June, so I miss his birthday and our anniversary AGAIN, for the third time in four years. He looks at me, big-eyed, fat-lipped, what can I say to a face like that? I know he’s only joking, but am I being too selfish here? Again?

A totally unexpected, but gratefully received cheque from The Gran means I can rearrange my Nica trip. I can now go, but still keep everyone happy. I’m off on 10th July. This means not only am I around for our anniversary, but also Carl’s birthday. Since I leave the next day, we could have a night out in London together. The new flight also means I get into Managua earlier and won’t have to sleep on my backpack in the airport!! And I get another few weeks to prostitute myself to the temping agencies to scrap some cash together. Woo!

Mark rang me. This is good. He’s been hibernating again, this time because he is stressing about revision. I’ve missed him. He rang because he was convinced he’d screwed up an exam and needed a telephonic hug. I’m good at them it seems, as the conversation got sillier and sillier until Carl asked me to go and buy potatoes. So, the mobile got taken all the way to Kwiksave, and the poor cashier had to listen to our mindless drivel while I tried to find money with one hand. And I walked home, giggling and dropping potatoes in the rain.

Apparently, the ultimate career (according to Durham’s Career Advisory Service) is something that combines the things you enjoy with the things you are good at. So, that probably leaves me with a few viable options. These include freelance chocolate taster, and agony aunt columnist (well, I love writing and my friends all survive my attempts at Being There for them!). My permanent cynicism means I think I could do a damn better job at being Prime Minster than St Blair, but I’m not sure if I’d want to. Travel writing requires capital before you start. So, its all hopeless really.

Something about it being Very Close to the End of the Second Year is making me contemplate the dreaded concept of what the hell am I gonna do with myself when I finish university? More specifically, what am I gonna do when we get to Canada? The careers thing yesterday was beyond depressing – like last time, the only stalls to entice you were Army or RAF (yeah, right!), social work, teaching (uuuuuurgh…. Please… nooooo….), Police (similar to my views on the army – no chance), or going into business management. So at least I know what I DON’T want to do.

“Tony, what’s all this about you Brits joining Europe?”
“Well, we are part of the European continent. There’s not a lot I can do about that.”
“You’re WHAT? I thought Britain was an island?”
“Yes, but, look, trust me, We’re Going To Be An Integral Part Of Europe, An Active Member State -”
“Cut the crap Tone, I can tell when you’re quoting Allistair’s speeches. I thought you were on my side – now you’re teaming up with the French!”
“No, George, trust me…"
“Hey, I’ve been thinkin’ –how d’ya feel about being the 51st state? The State of Old England?

“Look George, the Opposition are on to us. They’ve realized there aren’t actually any weapons in Iraq. They’re saying our war was unjustified. What do we do? They’ve even dug up Robin Cook to have a go at me!” “Whoa, Tone, calm down. Who’re ya talking about? The Opposition? Is the bald guy giving you trouble – gahd, whatsisname?” “Something Duncan-Smith I think, can’t really remember. But no, not him, I mean the REAL opposition, - the press!” “Oh gees Tone, if haven’t got the media with you, you’re done for!” “I know, I know, I thought they were my friends!”

Today has been schizophrenic. Horrible, stressful, headache inducing exam, which could have gone a lot better. Over Two Hours Of Genetics – aaaaaaaaaaarghhh! Carl getting stuck halfway up the M1, breakdown service think Darlington is somewhere near Doncaster and lose him, he eventually gets towed home and arrives back five hours after he set off. And I worry about him. However, cheerful mood: My favourite song, “I never should settle down, hanging around in a one horse town, does nothing for my state of mind…” (All about Durham!) Wine. Cuddles. Good friends beeping. And a new Nicaragua ticket in my wallet.

Mike returned today, with two more geologists… eeek. Fortunately, these seem to be a rare form of geologist who actually possess a sense of humour, or at least, drink enough to gain one. To their credit, there was little talk of rocks, after the first beer. Derek recently got a job at Durham Uni, so we had great fun RAH-slagging. We went out, and were entertained by possibly the worst Karaoke I have ever heard, Mike still horrified about the pubs’ clientele, and unable to hear ourselves speak over the “music”. So, we came home and got drunk til 4.30am.

I am dying… kiss me Hardy! My head feels like it has been jammed in a lift door for a fortnight. My stomach feels like a baby alien is about to burst forth messily. My gut has been inflated with a tyre pump and air is moving about in there like in squeezed bubblewrap. My energy levels have dropped to the state where all I am capable of is slobbing on the sofa and groaning and eating chocolate. I have poisoned myself, knowingly, willingly and self-destructively. And throughout all this, Carl is flatly refusing to give me any sympathy whatsoever.

My poor Carly-Warly is sick too. Not a hangover unlike mine yesterday, although possibly the result of a malignant kebab awakening the Stomach Monsters. He’s spewed so much he’s pulled a muscle in his back! Nurse NightingBel has been administering back massages and Tum-Tum tablets, and did all the shopping by myself. But with Carl out of action and still in bed, I am bored stupid. I don’t want to leave him and go out, and even if he was well, the poor car is also sick, so we are both stuck here. I think I’m going to make soup.