'But, what do you mean your parents can't pay your fees?'

Despite actively avoiding the massive stack of Sunday Times (of course it's the Sunday Times they ship in, it is Jesmond) in Tesco this morning in a vain attempt to do real work, the magic of the internet alerted me to these musings on the invasion of 'Rahs' to the North East's brightest city.

The Times did the same thing nigh on three years ago, when I was applying to study up here. On a near-scientific diagram of a 'Rah' they diagnosed that your average Imogen was likely to study English Literature at Newcastle. Upon arriving, I saw that, like Geordies being friendly and the Toon Army being real, the presence of Rahs in my first ever lecture was true to stereotype.

After overhearing a few corkers to use in the inevitable Rah-bashing conversations that ensue after Freshers' Week ("I'm so glad I broke into that twenty") and chucking out most of my pashminas, the Rah-infiltration has become pretty much part of daily life in Newcastle. Yes, from an outsider's view it's odd that there are hardly any people who aren't white (or orange), it's definitely weird that my local shop is a organic deli, surrounded by three boutiques crammed with Chloe, and it's frankly hilarious that the woman who does bikini waxes knows the ins and outs of everyone's social lives as much as what's between their legs. However, like any other kind of university demographic, you're used to what you know.

Giles Hatersley's amazement at the situation is nothing new - my Mum finally realised the grounding behind my Rah-gripes when walking through Jesmond this autumn - but it does mark the downside of putting such weight on the influx of public school kids. The majority of students at Newcastle aren't from public school, are all pretty skint, and, contrary to what the article may suggest, are Northern. The outcome of Hatersley's comments is probably not dissimilar to that of the mentioned 'Overheard at Newcastle University' facebook group - an embarrassing demonstration of prejudice from kids who are similarly middle class. I found it particularly amusing that the reporter's first name was Giles.

In the meantime, just to set a few facts straight:
- only people unacquainted with Newcastle call trebles bars 'triples bars' - it stands out like a sore thumb.
- Secondly, Eugenie has been seen rolling around outside Cosmic Ballroom, according to popular rumour. The fact photos haven't been printed, should they exist, suggests something about the censorship of the media.
- Thirdly, I've seen the aforementioned Princess wandering around both the library and outside The Grainger Market, both times without bodyguards. She does, after all, look like your standard Newcastle student - surely the big guys would give her away?

Newsagents: helping me on my way to obesity

It certainly wasn't the first time I've been aided in lady-business by a middle-aged Geordie of a stranger. However, much like the aforementioned, I certainly did not expect such a dialogue when guiltily scooting into the cosy newsagents to buy a Dairy Milk yesterday afternoon after some gallery action.
The Geordie-Asian accent combo is probably one of my favourites. However, this sage of advice and salesmanship had thrown in a little twang of Jamaican, just to make it really special. To keep things short, Bowlface is going to turn temporarily to scriptwriting:
Bowlface (B): peruses confectionery selection. Notices an absence of normal, 6-block Dairy Milk Bars and becomes a little distressed. Um, excuse me, do you have any normal sized Dairy Milk bars?
Newsagent (N): No, but we do have these big bars for 99p, which is really great value for money when the small ones cost 65.
B: Well, yes, the value is undeniable. However, I only want a small one.
N: adopts a Jamaican patois. The lady deserve some chocolate!
B: Evidently. However, not quite that much...
N: But you can eat a little now, and put half in the fridge?
[both N and B look at each other, B looking increasingly guilty, until a moment of dawning revelation]
N: You'll eat it all at once, won't you?
B: Yes.
N: Turning to a horribly-reminiscent GCSE Maths-style strategy of selling. But a chunk this size would normally cost 65p, so you're getting all the rest for about 25p.
B: Hands over a quid. Thanks. See you later.

If it wasn't bad enough to be seen maniacally scoffing one acceptable hand-sized Dairy Milk bar all the way through town, trying to subtly snap little bits off a giant bar whilst on the go was considerably more difficult. Thank God for the many and varied pockets of a Barbour Jacket. Needless to say that a mere seven squares remained by the time I'd reached my lecture theatre.

Finding dead stuff in the pub, the perfect post-exam celebration.

Thankfully, this wasn't taken in The Cumberland Arms,

but just on another occasion of pheasanty goodness that happened a little while back.

Every now and then I get reminded of my Shire roots in Newcastle and it gives me a humble little thrill. Such a thing happened last night, when, whilst ordering at the bar of so-traditional-you-get-evils-for-interrupting-the-folkies, The Cumberland Arms, I noticed a Tesco bag hanging off the front of the bar (they have hooks on there for such purposes). Anyway, it had a couple of feathers sticking out of it.

The Shire origins came shining through. I quickly identified these long plumes as belonging to a pheasant. This is because they're always stopping in the middle of country roads waiting to get killed, and I once opened the kitchen curtains to find one staring me out, oh, and there's a stuffed one in the house. It's a kind of taxidermy heirloom that Nick Hewer amongst others is a big fan of. Prodding the bag a little after making such an observation I announced (probably louder than really necessary) "HA! There's a brace of pheasants in that Tesco bag!"

This was met by a fair amount of disbelief - we were in the non-folkie, non-Geordie, kiddie side of the pub - including that of the barman, although it became apparent that this kind of thing happened fairly often. After waving the bag around for a while a bloke who looked like the least likely suspect to kill anything, let alone decapitate and pluck it, claimed them as his, most casually.

This in turn led to a massive discussion about taxidermy, something I'm personally a massive fan of - not necessarily doing it to endangered creatures now, but certainly making dead zoos out of all the poor blighters the Victorians got so much fun out of stuffing. Given the context of vegetarianism also at the table might not have been the best admission. Needless to say we moved swiftly onto discussing whether Cheryl Cole is in tune with second generation feminism in her recent Glamour interview by luck, judgement, or a PR company.

"Aye! We've cracked it!": Pretending to be in 'The Italian Job' with a taxi driver.

You'd be amazed how much studenty crap you can fit in the back of that thing.

Granted, this is a continuation on the ‘fun things that happen during transportation’ theme of recent posts. Possibly a reflection on the sad state of my life / sense of humour, but such are the affairs of bowlface.
So I had to get a cab, sober, in the middle of the day. A fairly rare experience as it goes, as Newcastle is a tiny place and I’m in a serious relationship with my bike. However, this was made practically into a memory for life due to the driver.
Didn’t quite catch his name, but he’d been in service 38 years, had a light gold Merc. with cream leather interior and was a king of taxicab travel. Today he too was presented with a lifelong experience, I’d like to think, in the form of a military parade.
Horses, police, tanks, soldiers and nationalists a go-go were occupying and lining the streets of Newcastle, with buses, cabs and cars getting progressively slower and closer together. It was gridlock, and I had a bus to catch in ten minutes. It was also the closest thing I’ve come to a real-life car chase. Yes.
Mr Taxi Man was also the Geordiest person I’ve ever come across, with the exception of the weird locksmith who merely grunted, chuckled and probably made inappropriate jokes about keyholes – all I could identify was “stairs”. When he saw the gridlock he treated it as a mission of mega proportions. I’ve never heard the word “gan” more often whilst he provided me with a brilliant running commentary of his Police-avoiding and bus-deceiving plans. As the fifteen minute journey continued he got increasing more animated, called a policeman ‘son’ and swore repeatedly at the poor souls who had tried to take a shortcut and got even more backed up. There were a few evil chuckles too.
By the time we were nearing the bus station he was totally, utterly triumphant because we had ‘cracked it!’. “Over The Moon”, apparently, which was certified by a happy little whistle. I reckon he was temporarily the taxi driver equivalent of Knight Rider in his mind.

The Metro: transcending generations in beautiful ways

I rarely take Newcastle's inner-city public transport train system, a.k.a., The Metro, wunder-invention of the eighties; so when I do, I invariably witness pretty special things.
Whether it's 15 year-old Geordies oranged-up to the bleached hairline on a Friday night or old women eating Greggs out the bag, surrounded by Fenwick shoppers or commenting on my shoes, it's a pretty good opportunity to people watch.
Today I saw possibly the greatest thing I've ever seen on those funny little trains. The focus of attention was a small happy baby, and the two competing forces for it's laughter were old men. Neither of these varieties are in any way rare on the metro, but the combo today was incredible.
I was stood opposite the first old man who was taking pleasure in entertaining the baby. Whilst casually trying to hide the typically obscene American Apparel advert on the back of my Vice magazine, it appeared that he wasn't remotely interested with the latex-covered crotch of the model but with bending his forefinger at the baby.
He also happened to be wearing a bobble hathat with ears which were tied under his chin, a suit, shirt and tie and some quite incredible loafers. I probably could have flipped to the fashion shoot of the magazine to show him just how cool he was. Anyway, the baby and the man were in this beautifully symbiotic relationship of joy, when old man number two comes on the scene.
I didn't get quite such a good look at this chap, he was about four metres away from me and his elderly rival, and two from the baby. His act was not finger waggling but a series of whimsical rhetorical questions, like "ooh, what was that?" when my phone bleeped. A weaker technique, I think you'll agree. Old man number one OWNED that baby's love.
Unfortunately, I had to get off just as this was getting interesting, and as old man number two was getting into his stride. By God, imagine what might've happened by the time the train had reached Monkseaton, eh?

My life is like a Geordie college movie.

Ha, ok, so the college-movie state was ironically referenced in that title. But there's nothing like a bit of Freshers' Week action in a very small city as an unwilling student Unionist to make you feel that there should be a punk-pop whiny soundtrack to all those little red bricks.

Essentially, what with one thing and another, I've spent the last four days in Newcastle not actually ticking off anything on my to-do list because I keep bumping into people. Which is really nice, but after spending half an hour trying to get from the Union building to where Joan, my bike, was locked up 200 yards away I'm starting to worry about doing any kind of academic work at all...

On the plus side, the other thing I'd forgotten about Newcastle was quite how brilliantly Geordie it is. Sounds stupid, I know, but three months in the south clearly has some impact. I had to slowly wheel Joan down Northumberland Street it was so blimmin' busy. Mainly because there were a group of "cheerleaders" grinding, quite ironically I thought, to dance music containing the lyrics 'I don't mean to be disrespectful'. When you'd got past those there were the Greggs queues, the old lady trolleys and buggies and Primark bags and buskers and the rest. How I'd underestimated the lunch rush I've no idea.

Anyway, onto the market and even before I'd got in a guy came out of his white van to tell me I'd locked Joan up wrongly, as "you'd just have to loop it o'er tha seat, pet, and you'd be haway, like". He was, of course, quite right. However it was most disconcerting to find my independence vanishing before my eyes as he watched me chain her up, only to give his approval from the van afterwards. See, things like that just don't happen in the south. Not in cities, anyway.

This was followed by people taking great interest in my bike basket as a shopping receptacle - the grocery guy packing it for me, whilst saying 'whey aye', a lady half my size apologising as I strode around the market with it, and a few comments on how pretty it was. Joan was touched.

Thus, I cycled home, sweaty after a three month cycling break, in the September sunshine, full of that yummy feeling of Geordie acceptance. Everyone should be as nice.