Tab Rates vs. Tab Slates: Week Five

Tab Rates

Charlie Brooker. He’s caustic, charmless and utterly absorbing. I think I might love him a little bit. He’s such an alpha male. Unsuitable choices like this are why I will be spending my 14th February with my female flatmates.

Hot Cross Buns. Apparently it’s really embarrassing when your friend starts, “shrieking with the pitch and volume of a rape alarm,” in the bakery aisle of Sainsbury’s. Apparently. Well I’m sorry. But I was pretty excited about the return of my favourite sticky and sweet carbohydrate. Apparently they’ve also, “been in stock for a couple of weeks now and can you please move away from them and stop salivating…God, you’re so bloody embarrassing”. Apparently. I seem always to be the last to know. Not to mention a “bloody embarrassing” human being into the bargain.

Mr Simm’s Olde Sweet Shoppe. On the corner of St John’s Street and Sidney Street, this offers a veritable smorgasbord of cavity-bestowing goodness. Take a trip and feel like the proverbial kid in the proverbial candy store (and then go home, munch your entire haul and promptly vomit it straight back up, just like good old Halloweens past. Oh to be young again.)

Hotter Than My Daughter. I hear your calls of, “poor research!” and “bare minimum!” (in fact, your criticisms sound rather like my DoS’ weekly, "Yes, this is an intervention," email) in the respect that two of this week’s Rates are poached off iPlayer. But to be fair, I’ve been doing very little else this week and my inertia has coincided nicely with a good week on digital TV. These people are truly, truly awful. Mummy still not forgiven you for hanging up on her last week during her weekly pastoral call when you were in Spoons and your mate yelled something sexually explicit down the phone? Well at least she hasn’t had her boobs done three times and doesn’t trot down to Tesco in an outfit that looks like she’s placed glittery dental floss in key areas, and done a poor job of concealing said areas at that. Next episode should be up soon. Can't wait.

Tab Slates

Other people’s music taste. Or more specifically, other people’s music taste when your phone tells you it is 4.14am, you have arranged a supervision at the godforsaken hour of 10am – in an email that might only be described as a mental fugue – and your throat is so sore you worry it may be making a bid for emancipation from your body. All you want to do is sleep. All other people want to do is play ‘cindies play list woooo!!!!111’ on a VK comedown from the selfsame nightclub in question.

Your face. No, this is not a playful subversion of the slightly more standard ‘your mum’ joke. Take a look in the mirror. Remember how you looked in week one or two (cheeks pink from the cold, but in a charming, Boden catalogue sort of way; eyes bright with newfound enthusiasm for life and your degree)? Now look at yourself. You might be finding looking at yourself quite difficult right now, because your eyes are sunken behind sandbags the Blitz would have been proud of (that’s the sleep deprivation), your complexion is the off-white of a rejected batch of Dulux (coming soon to the walls of a Lidl near you) and the VK and Van diet is doing nothing for your bone structure. You miss old you, don’t you. Now you know how your mum feels.

Disgusting couples. Everyone can think of at least one specimen of revolting coupledom. You look at them (well, less 'look' more 'gape-with-morbid-fascination-and-then-vomit-a-little-in-your-mouth') and you think, “Wow. The world does not need a walking, talking melee of your gene pool” (well, less 'talking' more, 'sitting-awkwardly-on-the-fringes-of-society'). Then again, maybe I’m just jealous that they’ll both have someone – though admittedly unfortunate looking – to sit opposite on Valentine’s Day. Hmm. Nope. I just don’t think that’s it.

People complaining about the new Facebook. It’s one thing joining one of the myriad of anti-redesign groups on the site itself (most of them grammatically-challenged and started by emo teenagers, but still); it’s quite another to bring this tirade out of the online community and into real-life conversation between real-life people. If you don’t like it, delete your sodding profile. Oh, I see, you’re not about to do that. But I don’t want to (over)hear about it over my Caffè Nero's, alright? So pipe down or log out. For good.

Supervision Mind Blank. Maybe there was a curious and distracting squirrel outside, maybe you heard a passing plane and sneaked what you intended to be the most momentary of glances out of the window but which evolved into full-on daydreaming/brain death, maybe your supervisor has a uniquely dull voice. Whatever it was, you have absolutely no idea what’s been going on for the last five minutes, but you know you just heard your name a couple of seconds ago and are now expected to volunteer a profound mot juste (or more probably several, strung along in a coherent sentence) that will justify your place at this university. Good luck.