STEPHEN FRY

Egrghe ever done something at a club that you regret?

Lauren said:
Egrghe ever done something at a club that you regret?

Club, no, fraternity, yes ma'am! It's cool, everyone was a stupid freshman (or sophomore... or junior... or 21-year-old who should know better...) once!

Speaking of fraternities and annoyances: one of my dad's top ten wishes is for my sister or me to marry a Kappa Sigma, probably so they can do cool brotherly stuff. However, the current crop is full of short dudes (which would be fine if I weren't tall) and dudes with girlfriends who are inevitably Chi-O's and Kappas, so I'm pretty sure my dad's dream will never come true no matter how many Homecoming events he drags me to . Plus my sister is dating a Phi Kappa Theta, which is troubling to say the least. Ignore me, I'm just talking, but the politics of Greek life sure are fun!

Joan, don't despair , most US university students do not belong to, or participate in the fraternity/sorority system.

What about the society for the appreciation of creative anachronisms? I never got what the hell that was about.

Kappa sigma what?? Sounds rather fascinating!

Katrina said:
Club, no, fraternity, yes ma'am! It's cool, everyone was a stupid freshman (or sophomore... or junior... or 21-year-old who should know better...) once!

*sigh* I'm going to say I was a stupid 19 year old, but it was the night before my 20th, so I don't know... It's one of those "I-want-to-hide-under-a-rock-for-the-rest-of-my-life" moments. Liquid courage.

Joan I completely agree about the American school terms. I don't get them either. The freshmen/sophomore thing I kiiiiiind of get (although I forget which each one means) but not so much for kids high school. Why did they decide to name each grade? Why not just say "I'm in grade 9" instead of "I'm a bladiblah"? It's clear and straight to the point. I don't even want to try to understand the Fraternity/Sorority thing they've got going on. Oh America... how you puzzle me so.

I regret to say that I am rapidly becoming the Teeside version of Woody Allen from Play It Again, Sam. Not one day goes by lately without at least one slapstick moment and a romantic mishap.

Last week I was on Reception and received a delivery of three small boxes of glass ashtrays. After our recent Health and Safety course, I immediately assessed the ashtrays as a HAZARD and identified that they posed a significant RISK to tripping (HAZARD: A dangerous item or situation. RISK: The likelihood of that item or situation actually causing harm. Assess the HAZARD and the RISK. Remove the HAZARD, or facilitate the removal of the hazard. Should the HAZARD and RISK evolve into an EMERGENCY, remain calm. Deal with the EMERGENCY. Then write it in the ACCIDENT BOOK.) I therefore placed the boxes neatly, very close to the desk so that no one would trip over them. Then I sat down, answered the telephone, filled in some paperwork, stood up and tripped straight over the ashtrays.

As both of my feet had struck the boxes at the same time, I was propelled forward much like a circus tumbler springing off a mat, and was aware that I was falling straight forward onto my face. With lightning-fast reflexes, I therefore did a 'duck and roll' manouver and flipped over onto my side, hitting the floor with my right shoulder and rolling over onto my back with my arms and legs flailing in the air like a beetle. Somewhat winded, I didn't move for several moments, during which I could hear customers expressing their concern for me, arguing over who would help me up and contemplating the merits of calling an ambulance. Before they did, thank Goodness, I recovered my faculties and scrambled to my feet.

And dammitall, I forgot to write it in the arse-ing ACCIDENT BOOK.

Then two days ago I was rehearsing to call at our bingo rally later in the month, when I fell backwards down the mainstage steps and into an activated electric fan, knocking off the protective mesh front and causing it to fall into the blades, which then proceded to attempt to grind the metal cover into dust. I reached forward to attempt a repair and very nearly thrust my hand into the rotating blades.

And last week, I professed my undying love for a beautiful bisexual colleague. She responded, 'Oh, you're so sweet.' She clearly did not comprehend that this is the worst possible response you could give to a lesbian's tentative advances. It beats even 'slapping her over the face with a smoked Rainbow Trout' and 'gouging out her right eye with a drinks straw.' Clearly she hasn't properly read the LGBT guidelines. Though she's young yet.

To compound it all, last night there was the Cushion Incident. For Christmas My sister bought me (with, I promise, her tongue firmly in her cheek) a pillow decorated with Stephen Fry's face and the words 'I Heart Stephen'. Until now I have kept it in the top of the wardrobe, slightly concerned that any visitors might glimpse it and think me slightly unhinged (for this reason I long ago removed my Stephen Shrine from the corner of my living room) and not understand the ENTIRELY HUMOROUS intent behind the gift and the WRY, SELF AWARE CHUCKLE I gave upon receipt of it. Three nights ago, however, I was tempted by its exceptional plushness and decided, against my better judgement, to get it down and use it to sleep upon. First I tried it tucked between my legs, but this felt indecent somehow, so I decided to tuck it beneath my head.

Inevitably, mid-way through the night I half-awoke and thought I was actually sleeping next to Stephen Fry (the picture of his head is life-size and photographic). My heart gave a leap and I flung my right arm backwards, knocking my lamp, my Blackberry, my Pete and Dud coffee cup, my copy of 'Naked Lunch' and my Marilyn Monroe cigarette tin flying across the room to smash against the wardrobe doors. When I calmed down sufficiently to go back to sleep, I dreamt that Stephen Fry and I were braiding my sister's hair using tiny ethnic-style beads, and became quite irate that Stephen's braids were neater and tighter than mine.

I might as well just get myself some large, black-rimmed glasses, move to New York and marry my partner's adopted child.