The world’s most pierced man has a total of 453 piercings; he’s definitely got some catching up to do though as the world’s most pierced woman has over 6000. But it appears Elaine Davison does not actually enjoy getting her piercings done, as she quoted to the Telegraph, ‘I don’t enjoy getting pierced, but to break the record you have to get to a high level.” So she’s punctured her body over 6000 times, many in bizarre and rather inappropriate places, just to get her name in the record books? What record will she go for next? The world’s most ambitious woman or the world’s stupidest?

 

Something I never thought I would see: my friend slipping and sliding through urine. Ok, maybe I could have expected to see this, the unexpected part comes from the fact that it was an organised event. No, he hadn't taken an unfortunate stumble somewhere along the lines of a messy evening; this was a normal Monday afternoon and carried the unequivocal stench of sobriety.  This was his inventive, albeit unhygienic, way of raising money for charity. And after witnessing the air of serenity that fell across his face as he took the plunge, hats off to the chap.

 

Manchester may have had The Smiths. Liverpool may have been home to the Beatles. Sheffield may have played host to Pulp. But Leeds, Leeds was once the creative stomping ground of none other than...Chumbawumba.

So come on, let’s hear you, “He drinks a whisky drink, he drinks a cider drink...”

No?

Suit yourselves.

Because, as all good music maestros know, that little titbit is only one of a thousand well worn pieces of the rich musical tapestry that has been, and continues to be, the splendid city of Leeds. Soft Cell, The Who, Corrine Bailey Rae and the Sunshine Underground, are just a few of the reasons why Leeds’ musical history is every bit as vibrant as that of its Northern cousins. And yes, I know I forgot the Kaiser Chiefs. But who’s heard of them right?

 

Pink Floyd said it best. “Money, get away. Get a good job with more pay and you’re ok”, but I guess it all depends on what we really want out of life and if you want to merely be ‘ok’ or want to achieve that dream job. Can you imagine how different things would be if Pink Floyd had settled for ‘good jobs’ and sold their souls to the 9-to-5 corporate devils? We may never have learnt the harsh realities of what money can do to a person, let alone to such an epic toe-tapping anthem as ‘Money’. If a good job and a good wage at the end of the month are all we ask of the Fairy Jobmother, then it is in fact well within our reach. However, if you are looking for true job satisfaction then this is another story all together. At first look, it would seem that the hunt for a bright and enjoyable future comes hand in hand with sacrificing your dreams and possibly your identity too.

As the sunshine streams through the curtains and my eyes flicker open, I am aware of the nauseating feeling building from the depths of my stomach. I become mindful of the fact that this could be the last time for months that I awake to familiar surroundings. Today I move away from the comfort of my home. A faraway city whose name feels unfamiliar on my tongue; one that in my tense, terrified thoughts seems alienating and lonely: a dark abyss in which I have no choice but to venture towards.

 

 

It’s always exciting for students making the transition from halls of residence to their first actual house. You finally get to live with people you want to live with, and with the added freedom that comes with living in your own house, it’s an exciting time for anyone. But with moving into a house, comes a lot of extra responsibilities; Water, electricity and gas bills, paying for internet packages, all the stuff that no one really wants to have to deal with. 

There’s always the slight feeling of apprehension as to how your parents are going to react when they first see your new house after moving out of halls, because let’s face it, a lot of student housing in this country has a lot left to be desired. It seems as though after living in halls, students are often sectioned off into the cheapest places possible, without being too far away from the university campus, and that usually means living in a residence not dissimilar to the Gorbals. The first time my mum saw the state of my brother’s house in his second year of university, she cried. A lot of students are lucky if they get a window that doesn’t have moss growing on the inside, or a ceiling that doesn’t have damp seeping through.

The sun was burning the pigeons. The men were shirtless and all lost beneath the field’s labyrinth of barley. Faces caked in sweat and lungs clogged in humidity; they needed a release. They echoed across the countryside as the biological rainwater nourished the crops. The relief was drug-like. From figureheads to doctors; men urinate standing up. We have done so for millennia. Its reception with society nowadays is mixed. Since the “golden ages” of Romans, Vikings and King (Mc)Arthur we have come a long way in sanitation. Perhaps this race-horse stallion secretion isn’t as welcome as what it once was.

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