Alan Titchmarch? No, my fellow students, I'm afraid not

From this:

To this:

(in a number of easy steps - not including the wine)

The average student prides themselves with being able to skimp and save, and spend as little on food as they can. It's essentially a competition:

"Have you seen the deal on at the corner shop, it's two for one on those curries in a can," said one university friend.

"Ah, but it's buy three meals in a bag and get two free at the Golden supermarket," another announced in reply.

Unfortunately, when those buying into these 'amazing' deals start looking like living corpses it becomes apparent you cannot live off these bargains every night of the week.

At this point, I should immediately point out that the grow-your-own method is unlikely to take off in the student market or end such health-reducing buys.

But let me take you back to a jumble sale at the end of last year and a very Ground Force moment when I was temporarily misled by the idea.

One of my friends, Oliver Robinson, a Del Boy from Leicestershire, started talking to the wide-eyed-hippy-glasses-wearing-owner of a chili plant stall. Suddenly charmed by growing his own hot crops, Oliver persuaded me and two other mates to also buy into this soil hobby of the plant pot kind.

I can't say I wasn't taken in by this drug dealer of the plant world; the stall owner said we could call him at anytime - like Childline for the vegetable community. I did double check the shape of the leaves - I wasn't going to turn my house into a cannabis cavern.

Basically, it was like having a plant agony aunt, but in a more manly sense of the phrase, and we could cook curries and have the hot part fresh, and for free.

So it began quite well, a Facebook group was even set up to track the progress of our plants, because we were in-fact quite competitive about the future size of our chilies.

Unfortunately the novelty soon wore off; my housemate's ambitious compost was thrown out the back door and his plant was knocked off the windowcill during a house party.

He called foul play, but my own had been caught in a minor apocalypse - left behind my oversized curtain next to the radiator on a number of cold nights.

Don't do this at home:

The 'chili' specimen:

What they look like now:

As you can see, the chili plants have been literally obliterated. I say 'chili' with caution, because after growing one green specimen, shown above, I found it to have no seeds inside or carry any form of heat.

I believe that the plants were actually of the boring green pepper kind.

Good riddance.

...........

All this talk of grow-your-own reminds me of a project I filmed last year - look out for the moldy beetroot and rotting carrot:

Growth in Grow Your Own from Harry Harris on Vimeo.

The joys of being a healthy student

Yesterday morning:

After the binge of freshers week (I'm now a third year but still) I have decided to go on a minor health drive.

This so far has involved:
1. Buying bananas - However, rather predictably they have gone off before I have eaten them. 
2. Running up and down the stairs - whenever I need something from a different floor,  like a sandwich.  

3. Drinking less of the strong stuff.
4. Riding from my house to university - on a bike, not horse, although still surprisingly dangerous. 

I'm living in a different house this year in the centre of Bournemouth, but I didn't realise the initial treacherous bike route from my new abode.
My housemate had assuringly told me the route was a 'piece of cake'. However this was far from an Angel Delight.
More a Black Pudding.
I went out the back door, helmet on - I got hit by a car last year (on my bike, broken wrist etc) - and it started to rain. Hooray.

I entered through the back gate and cycled down a flat path. This is easy, I thought.
Then some steps appeared; I could handle these, but it was only 9.30am so I got off my bike and carried it down.
There's no need to be too adventurous yet.

But then, staring down at me was Bournemouth's Mount Kilimanjaro; a steep slope with less build up than a bad Death Metal record.
It just goes straight up. I need time to aclimatise, get into my stride, even change into an easier gear. The latter being the most vital.
The gear issue was the main problem surrounding my predicament - I was still in an enthusiastically steep gear from the previous day. This was going to be quite a climb.

In a positive move, I attempted to quickly get on my bike and change the gear to a lower one; I wobbled from side to side, trying to keep balance. Unsuccessfully, I put my feet back on the ground. I'm Ok though, I can do this: I didn't go out last night.

It was time to give it another go but it was hard seeing through the drizzle: I leapt on the pedals anyway, but my body went from one side to the other again, but this time more dramatically- a bit like a child who's parent has taken off the stabilisers without telling them.

As I tried to keep balance whilst getting into an easier gear something very unfortunate arose, or flew rather.

A FLY on some sort of suicide mission careered at high-speed into my left eye.

If you can imagine, you're walking down this hill, and you see a 'cyclist' who looks like he is on the peak of an 'A' class drug, raving on his bike, with one eye feeling the full affects of this chemical infusion. Squinting constantly with one hand appearing to punch his face (eye).

Unfortunately the nightmare continued; I had managed to get into a lower gear, but I had one hand trying to pull the fly out of my eye.
The bike was going right then left. Two hands had kept me on the bike. But, well, one...

Then, out of no where I was in a bush. Imagine thorns. This was no bed of roses.

I pulled myself out, smiling to passer-by's - they may have not see the incident. 

I then walked the rest of the way up.

Tomorrow the hill will be conquered, on bike.

X-Factor is now showing at my Student Union bar: they can forget about my custom.

As a student the weekend normally means staying in; five days consisting of probably little work and much play (freshers?) have taken their toll, stag do’s from up north have arrived by the mini-bus load and the clubs hike up their prices for those unsuspecting people who work full-time- blimey imagine what that’s like?

Unfortunately being in a student house on a Saturday or Sunday may involve a word beginning with X and ending in Factor. I can’t quite bring myself to say the complete name because it's all consuming; it blasts in your face, screams in your ears and spreads all over Facebook.  

That guy can’t sing, she’s really common, he’s got a wooden leg etc.

Have you seen the news? There’s probably something quite important going on, like an earthquake. But wait, one of the judges is crying. My heart bleeds, they could be in their villa in Mauritius.

It really is a whole world of trollop. But typically when you’re in a house of at least four people, one reprobate wants to watch it. Personally, I’d rather stab myself in the eye, or one of the contestants. Sometimes I can’t decide.

The problem this year in particular is that the program’s head has grown the size of an abnormally large hot air balloon.

The lights flash like a techno rave, the commentators voice reminds me of the evil Saw man, and the audience is unbearable – imagine the man at the front telling them to cheer louder: he must be on acid.

Everything about it now screams American. Why? Because they want to send the winner over there and makes loads of wonga. In less they’re old. Or fat.

One thing that is particularly irritating is when they bring back old contestants who are now ‘successful’: “100 millions albums, 20,000 sell out tours and now fantastic at miming.” You get the drift. Well, what they don’t mention is what happens to the less lucky ones, who for some reason were not cool enough to make the dosh and were therefore quickly dropped by their label.

They really should bring them back. Here’s the ones who you voted for and didn’t make it:

“Hi, remember me, Steve err, what’s my surname, I can’t remember. Ah, Brookstein. Well I’m now singing in The Kings Arms, west Woolwich. The guys at the pub love me. I often get requests for Leona Lewis.”

Just to verify, said persons name in quote had to be looked up on Wikipedia in order to find their full name. And in case you’re interested he has actually been appearing in a musical called Our House. Sounds a hoot.

Second contestant:

“Hi my names Michelle McManus and well the industry is really image….”

Dermot: “Move on love you’ve on the wrong show. It’s a dog eat dog world.”

Anyway there’s still probably about ten treacherous weeks of the spectacle left.

That’s a lot of Saturdays out on the town, although note-to-self: apparently they've started showing the show at my Student Union bar so that's one to avoid. And well on Sunday, maybe I’ll lock myself in my room, apparently that’s really fun. 

PART 2: Revenge

Simon Cowell, for Christmas, you get a bag of coal. 

"Simon, I've got some disturbing news, you're no longer the big dog, the X-Factor single is at........number two."

S.C:  "WHAT, WHAT, WHAT's at number one?"

Adviser: "It's a....metal song sir."

S.C: "A METAL SONG, but the kids love Miley Cyrus."

Adviser: "It appears the listeners are a little angry, they are raging against you, sir."

This is the Facebook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine to number 1 this Christmas.

(http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228594104)

I mean could you imagine:

The top 40 Christmas chart countdown which everyone has forgotten:

"At number two, it's, IT's, the X-Factor single, which means, children, erm, turn your speakers up for.......... Killing In The Name."

Oh the joy that would bring to my ears.

It's the most seasonal song since Mr Blobby, but a whole lot more meaningful. 

This by the way is not an epiphany, but, I will now be praying to Jesus this Christmas that Rage Against The Machine beats the X-Factor to Christmas number one.

Literally, if you are listening God, turn your spawn on Mr Cowell and ruin his yuletide X-Factor X-mas monopoly. 

It would be the surprise present for such a song to hit the number one spot next Sunday - the coal in Simon Cowell's stocking.

I mean they even played the rock tune at our student nightclub last night, after Rhianna - what a mix up.

And finally what an amazing way to broadcast the tune, through the mouths of Cowell's puppets: