Bubbles:

For those about to rot

Where did all this come from then?
The articles herein were all written during my university days, mostly for The Courier, an august publication whose main failing was a tendency to crash and burn at regular intervals just when it was finally getting off the ground again (indeed, it was unavailable for most of my undergrad years). This content used to be available as part of Multiple Organisms, my first web site, via the URL http://www.dcs.aber.ac.uk/~ajr/scribbles/. Don't look for it there now, it has long been deleted by a hidebound administration determined to stamp out subversive and radical commentary (or possibly to free up some disk space).
I once read a memorable quote from a former member of an amateur rock band:
"We were singing songs about hard-lovin' women and the drummer was a virgin!"
...which provoked a grim smile of recognition. Not only was I a drummer in a similar band (although we did have a hard-lovin' woman on vocals), I also wrote about drink, drugs and women in a way that chiefly drew attention to the fact that I couldn't handle my drink, couldn't face taking drugs and couldn't find any women. In this at least, I was not alone and I like to think that the lack of the vehement protest I so badly hoped would be triggered by my work was due to wholehearted but silent, nodding empathy from the majority of my readers. If, indeed, anyone read my work at all (Aber students have traditionally been so apathetic, they barely merit the leading `a' on the word).
Actually, I know that's not entirely true. Bob Gautier, my final year project supervisor, must have read it because he warned me not to mention my cock in my report. (Honestly, you'd think that was all I wrote about.)
I have no idea how many people I may have fortuitously offended with my output in total, but I can count the numbers of those who were sufficiently riled to complain on one disappointed hand:

The person who scrawled, "Ade Rixon, some people want a word in your ear" in crayon on the office door, who we suspect was from Rag. (Top brainwashing cults always worth having a pop at: 1) Christian Union; 2) Rag.)
The landlord of the Llew Du on Bridge Street, who objected (with some justification) to a thoughtless allegation that English speakers would be "beaten to a pulp" in pubs called The Black Lion. My fairly weak defence during the subsequent cripplingly embarrassing phonecall was to point out that there were 18 Black Lions listed in the area phone book.
The primates at the Glengower, following a thinly veiled attack on the dubious charms of their establishment and service (come on guys, if it hadn't been true then you wouldn't have recognised yourselves). Trouble was, they weren't too keen to settle their advertising bill after that. To their credit, the Courier editorial team stuck by me, but not to the extent of refraining from sending me to collect payment.
There is nothing like stirring justified and incoherent rage in others to make one feel successfully vindicated.
On the plus side, the leader of Nightline, Aber's student counselling service, was heard to say, "I'd like to have Ade Rixon's babies" following my piece on a notorious attention-seeking individual who criticised their services. (Note: I remain childless.)
I couldn't have written this stuff without a lot of help from many people. Of course, you can tell by the fake grin of insincerity that I'm lying here, as I relied only upon my godlike genius. Nevertheless, it enhances any advantageous claims on my part towards being a generous and warm human being if I also thank:

All my editors at the Courier: Sarah Wenban, Lisa Garner, Paula Rogers, Rob Webb, Lisa Harding, Kate Glanville and finally Mary-Lou Boyt (now Rixon), to whom I owe so much that the only way I could repay the debt was by marrying her. Special mention also for Paul Coombes, who was far funnier than I ever could be (those who remember "Caersws: Gateway to Adventure!!" and "Aberystwyth: Reykjavik of the South!!!" know what I mean) but whose articles were always thankfully uncredited, meaning that people assumed I wrote them. If only.
Friends and others who still talked to me without making their pity and derision too obvious, and who probably inspired much of what I wrote (in an entirely inoffensive and non-actionable way).

I have long been meaning to tidy up and republish these great historical masterpieces, in lieu of actually bothering to write some new stuff, but in the end I decided that they were better preserved in their original, purest form. Besides, that way I didn't need to make any further effort before hoisting this tosh up on the web. So please excuse the youthful naïvety, the empty boasts, the wishful thinking and the blatent bullshit contained herein. Enjoy a snapshot of a young man at the peak of his somewhat limited talents, before he elected to simply take the money and keep his gob shut. And remember that you too were a virgin once.
P.S. Another little white lie: I did actually tidy some of these up and tweak the grammar where appropriate. Oh, and delete anything likely to cause too much embarrassment (to me! not you! you should be flattered!).
Read on, Macduff

Other bubbles:

The Courier (if the Union hasn't shut off their funding again).
The University of Wales, Aberystwyth made me the cynical bastard I still am today.

2002-01-22

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