Fourth entry.

It’s been fifteen days since I last posted on here. Sporadic updates suggest that my sparkling blogging career is dissolving before my very eyes. I haven’t actually been doing very much, which I suppose is the real downfall when writing entirely about oneself.

     “You should change the name from ‘Daisy: on the blog’,” my friend Dewi proposes. “You can call me childish but I’m sure a good 50% of people will think ‘on the blob’.”

     Idiot. That’s the point you see; it’s a clever play on words. It’s tasteless yet eye-catching, and people like to indulge in that sort of morbidity, don’t they?

     Probably not. But enough about menstruation; now it’s the festive period, which means I get to return to the motherland to fill my lungs with Welsh manure, after a long term at uni.

     It’s good to be nestled between the rolling hills once again, safe from gun crime and car theft. Criminal damage, I must hasten to add, does not go without mentioning, after a sheep once hurtled itself onto my bonnet, denting the vehicle and severing all remaining ties with cloven hoofed beasts.

     Things I like about being home include: Being warm, all the time. Not smelling indistinguishable smells from unidentified parts of the house. Being able to put food down on the worktops without fear of disease or contamination. Being able to have time for solace and contemplation, without the seven housemates concerning themselves over my mental state.

     Things I dislike about being at home include: not having a lock on the bathroom door. This is a measure implemented in the event of one of us ‘having a fall’ in the shower. Not that this is likely to happen, of course, as all residents are under the age of fifty.

     Further resounding fears include the classic Dad jokes being flung recklessly all over the place with no regard for my emotions. “Is that suitcase big enough for my presents?!”   Considering I paid most of my train with the emergency bag of 5p’s; yes, yes it is big enough.

     Actually, with regards to the aforementioned suitcase, it undoubtedly wouldn’t be big enough. I’m buying my parents chickens for Christmas, so it would probably breach RSPCA guidelines to battery pack them in this way, and most certainly my own morality.

     How to wrap said chickens is incomprehensible. I certainly wouldn’t want them escaping. Terrifying things. It’s those meaty, red chin growths I don’t like. I’d imagine touching them would be as horrifying as when you accidentally grab an unsuspecting strangers foot in the swimming pool; awful.

     The Christmas tree is coordinated with the living room. There seems to be some unjustified fear that breaching the colour scheme would result in Laurence Llewelyn Bowen flouncing in at any moment, gurning with shock at the sacrilege bestowed upon then Christmas spirit. So enough of this; I’m going to have a word. Considering my lack of inspiration and good will to all men, I really should make ‘on the blog’ a monthly occurrence.

Third entry.

Heavens to Betsy it’s cold. I’m a student, therefore I replace central heating with Raúl the hot water bottle and a heavy-tog duvet. It is a cruel mistress though, this cold. It won’t be long before we all have to start pissing on each other for warmth, and what will become of us then? Have a burning desire to jet away somewhere real fancy; basking in the sun like an exotic reptilian. In the mean time; here’s my guide to travelling on the cheap, inspired by my trip around Italy and Croatia over summer.

The pauper’s guide to travel

Travelling on a budget? Fearful for your welfare? Require some invaluable yet entirely useless advice? Fear not; the pauper’s guide to travel is here to quash all your worries!

Transport

Value is essential. Book with economy airlines; fly at ungodly hours; change seventeen times during your flight. The plane may have the appearance of being constructed from mega blocks, but rest assured, this can only result in a more determined and concise method of piloting. That £15 flight will all be worth it when (if) you land.

Coaches are a cost-effective method of travelling between countries. Remember: Toilets and air conditioning are a privilege, not a right. Disgruntled drivers included in ticket price. Coaches are also a convenient and safe means of sleep where accommodation can’t otherwise be afforded.

Barter with taxi drivers; they always raise the rate for unsuspecting tourists and eventually they’ll become tired of the language barrier and give in. In addition, should you be put in the boot, demand to pay a smaller fare. You’re technically being counted as luggage or a pet; neither of these earn a decent wage.

Food and drink

Lurk in the shadows of bars and befriend gentlemen with a bigger ego and wallet than yourselves. You owe them nothing; they’ve already been compensated with the pleasure and indeed, privilege of your company. Being flashed at is an admittedly unsavoury, yet small price to pay for unlimited Bellini’s, darling.

Beware; ‘happy hours’ may imply a bargain, but the cruel reality is that you drink twice as much, thus halving your inhibitions and therefore the tight grip on your purse strings.

When embarking upon the rare treat of dining in a restaurant, be sure to look for set menus; they’re often much better value. Gorge on food as though it were your last meal; fill up on carbs as though preparing for hibernation. Not before swimming though, of course.

Be unnecessarily critical of restaurants in order to dodge that pesky custom of tipping. “No toothpicks on the table? No tip!” Show no mercy; poor customer services amounts to poor customer feedback.

Kill it, cook it; eat it. Well, not quite, but you can scavenge as well as the next man. Get back to your primal roots and go fishing. Mussels, for example, provide a delicious and relatively simple meal. Readers should adopt this method at their own risk; food poisoning is no joke and the medical bills could only hinder your money- saving, hard work.

Supermarkets are an economical means of nourishment. This is only truly beneficial when you have cooking facilities; otherwise it can be soul-destroying. You’d be amazed how much cured meat and bread you can get through in a day, though.

Accomodation

Stay in hostels. It’s like a mass sleepover, really, only without anyone being your actual friend. Bring along your supermarket cured meats and you’ve got yourself a poor man’s midnight feast, too!

Couch surf (couchsurfing.org). If you like the idea of curling up on a stranger’s sofa, this could be the option for you! The ratio of nice people to psychopaths is relatively in proportion, and your host could be the ideal person to show you the cheapest side of your destination.

Bring a tent. It can be a cruel and unforgiving way to sleep, but let’s remember, you only need accommodation for somewhere to rest your weary head, after all. Make the most of being able to lie beneath the stars and ignore that familiar sound of a mysterious figure relieving themselves upon your flysheet.

Shopping

Are you joking? The dedicated budget traveller refuses to exchange nourishment funds for material possessions. Avoid buying at all costs, no matter how shiny.

Excursions

There’s always plenty to do for free. If you’re unwilling to pay entrance fees for museums; galleries and whatnot, simply take photos of oneself looking both fascinated and cultured outside the entrance.

People-watching is a cheap and entertaining way to fill your day. It can provide hours of heart warming and hilarious fun that you simply don’t get meandering through galleries.

Do your sight-seeing in the dead of night. See all the local beauty, without the queuing (admittedly with slightly blurred vision, depending upon what prompts your adventure)! Fun and efficient; roaming the city at night means the streets are your own. Feeling like a King of the sights certainly brightens one’s spirits in the midst of a gloomy financial situation!

Go to a festival. Admittedly not the most cost-effective method of spending limited funds, yet always guaranteed to be worth the pennies. Lounge and sleep on the beach all day and dance through the night; there’ll be no time for spending with all the fun you’re having...Sort of.

And finally; for the thriftiest among us

Ever been in that inconvenient position of needing to squat outside a stranger’s tent, but not being able to afford toilet paper? Never fear, an unsuspecting victim’s swimming shorts are always nearby! It’s ok to lose all decorum and morality when you’re in a festival. Go ahead; I won’t mind. Really.

Second Entry.

I’m not entirely familiar with the concept of ‘blogging’. For now I think I’ll just use it as a faithful outlet for all the emotions I endure: fear; guilt; anxiety; self-doubt; hunger...All the emotions. I don’t feel qualified to instruct you on which music to listen to; what clothes to wear; where to go this weekend...I haven’t even got out of bed myself yet.

     I’m tiresome of my tolerance of this relentless university related work. I’m bored of living like a student; eating beans on toast off my knee and observing the slug trials on the carpet with contempt.  (They catch the light in the most delicate and mysterious fashion, though). 

     I’m bored of living off the contents of my Gran’s change jar; holding up the self service queue at Asda. I’m bored of my wisdom tooth trying to escape through my face, and that weird bit of gum flap that I keep worrying I will eventually digest with my baked bean brunch.

     There’s the potential of having some real-life fun tonight, though. A party, mere metres away from my own house. Whether I’ll go or not though, is debatable. The advantages include being able to indulge in a hangover tomorrow, which I do enjoy as it gives me the opportunity to truly revel in my own self-pity. There isn’t a much better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than watching repeats of Murder, she wrote, whilst sobbing into a pan of mashed potato.

     There are other advantages. A friend of the host soiled my 21^st birthday party recently by shitting in my housemates’ shoe. He will most certainly be there, thus ‘poo revenge’ can commence. Whether I want to spend my weekend hiding faeces in a house full of strangers, is another matter. 

     I’ve established in my mind’s eye that this would be both endearing and hilarious, making me the life and soul of the party. It would also serve to fulfil a deep-seeded desire stemming from my traumatic childhood, whereby a masked stranger broke into my house and defecated in my pram. 

     Whilst an ‘honour pooing’ is debatably dishonourable, it would surely relieve me of this injustice and restore my faith in human nature.  

     We’ll see. You don’t need to have fun all the time, surely. Maybe I’ll just have a pan of mash, anyway; I’m feeling reckless.