On the essay-front, I am now officially halfway there, which I think means I'm ahead of schedule. In celebration of this, I have decided to take tonight off and indulge in some quality film-watching. Currently gracing my screen is The Missouri Breaks, which I've wanted to see for ages and by some weird and wonderful stroke of luck is on BBC2 this very evening. I'm a bit of a Brando-phile, you see, and the idea of Marlon dressed as a cowboy, sounding like a drunken Leprechaun, galloping across a plain hooting like a madman killing rabbits was just too intriguing. Also, any film with Jack Nicholson in it is pretty much guaranteed to be worth your while. So here I am.

Last night was spent at the student union, where I attempted to drink my woes away, and ultimately only succeeded in creating new ones for myself. Such is the twisted logic of Tequila. Anyway, a rather distressing precedent was continued last night as I once again had another huge row with my best friend. I hate fighting with people, and I espescially loathe fighting with people I love as much as I love her, but for some reason it's all we seem to do recently. Last night it was over a Talking Heads CD. Well, the Talking Heads CD was the catalyst, at any rate. More deep-lying stuff came out. But it was horrible anyway. Anyone who knows me knows that I like a light-hearted argument and I take the piss, but real-life fights I can't deal with. So, naturally, after a rather strange evening, I ended up sleeping underneath her kitchen table. It was by choice, though. I like sleeping in weird places. Baths, floors, cupboards, underneath tables, you name it. So last night was a bit of a wash-out, made doubly bad because it'll be the last time I see my friends Nic and Jess till January, as all of next week is a bit of a write off, Friday night will be spent at 12 Hour Cheesy Pop, Saturday and Sunday are at Franz Ferdinand, and on Monday morning I fly out to New York for two weeks.

Still, at least I won't be in the country for New Year. In Scotland, we like to think that at New Year, the entire world is watching us, as we throw the World's Greatest Party in Edinburgh. They're not. They're watching the ball drop in Times Square. Or marvelling at the pretty fireworks in the Phillipines. Or just generally not giving a toss about Scotland. I fucking hate this country and its small-mindedness. It's the niggly little things. Like, when a celebrity has a distant Scottish relative, or was born here to English parents, they're described as 'Scots'. Why would anyone want to be Scottish? Did Trainspotting teach us nothing? But there are other reasons why New Year is so utterly futile and pointless. Which I won't go into, for reasons best kept to myself. Let's just call them alcohol-related.

In other news: things on the drumming front are looking up. For someone who's teaching himself, I'm doing alright I suppose. I don't really know why I wanted to learn how to play the drums. I think I just got sick of the utter lack of drummers around, thus making it unbelieveably difficult to start a band. Not that I'm even looking to start a band. God knows, but I've decided to learn keyboards next, once I've achieved drum competency. Who said I'd wasted £250 and would never actually bother learning how to play the fucking things?

Finally, I read on my good friend Andrew Kendall's livejournal that Special Needs have been experiencing some difficulties recently. I can't say that I know the band, but I have met Zach once, at Reading this year, and he provided me with much hilarity. Namely, the moment when he met the editor of NME for the first time, shook his hand and said 'I think it's great that NME is being edited by a man with an Irish surname', which, provoked the blankest, most bemused of looks from Conor. All the best to Zach and Special Needs, hopefully things will sort themselves out.