When Hamish and Sellotape Met Page 3
A story so worth remembering in detail, I thought it wise to create a blog system with Jekyll to tell the tale of When Hamish and Sellotape Met Page 3. My intention was to build the blog in a matter of hours – or, perhaps more realistically, a few days – and then write this post with the events of 12th December, 2014 fresh in my mind. As is typical of times when I come up with such organised and efficient ideas, my plan failed spectacularly. It's only now, eighteen days on, that I recall the adventure of my friends' and mine.
As could be assumed from previously stated information, Christmas was just around the corner. As has become common in many circles, Secret Santa exchanges were being organised too, and this is what led to the eventual meeting of Hamish, Sellotape and The Sun's third page. The maths class of one of my friends' was once such circle, but it seemed my good pal wasn't overly excited at the though of finding something for someone he had met only weeks before, and still barely knew. I wasn't going to allow the guy to go out and buy something practical as he had suggested he might; pens, pads of paper, or such. There was nothing amusing or festive in that, so I decided I would make it my quest to ensure something well and truly unwanted – but fun – was purchased. The budget of £3 wasn't exactly restricting either.
Along came Friday afternoon and, as usual, two of my friends and I were free of lessons for the day. We could have sat and worked, or talked, or browsed Facebook to the extent that the poor college Wi-Fi would allow, but I reminded the two of the gift-purchasing I had taken into my own hands and they were soon convinced. Before long, we were wrapped up to fend off the nip-stiffening December weather, and headed off campus. Being one to bring in a laptop and sit procrastinating with code rather than, say, adventure into town during my free periods, I was inexperienced when it came to the trek out of college. My good friends Juliett and Whiskey (we're going with the NATO phonetic alphabet for now) led the way. We journeyed past the fag pit – less an exclusively homosexual mosh pit, and more a derelict bus shelter for those wishing to smoke cigarettes – onto the dual carriageway, and past a swimming pool of bad memories and a building site.
We soon found ourselves in the centre of the shopping area, and realised we had little idea of what to buy. We knew our budget, our deadline of the following Tuesday (or so we thought), and the fact that our bus home would leave college in little more than an hour, so we decided to casually mooch in WHSmith. For those unaware, "WHSmith PLC is a British retailer which operates a chain of high street, railway station, airport, hospital and motorway service station shops selling books, stationery, magazines, newspapers and entertainment products". We found pens, ink, paper and related products, but this was to be expected, and wasn't overly interesting in our books. We contemplated the Terry's chocolate orange on sale for less than £2, and this would probably have been a better choice in retrospect. That said, "better" doesn't necessarily take our entertainment into consideration.
Instead, we chose to buy a teddy bear named Henry, which we found for a discounted price of £2.99. This was a surprise for two reasons; not only was WHSmith offering a soft toy on their shelves, but it was also available for purchase at a price which would not leave one in debt. After assuring Juliett, whose views are particularly contrary to those of the right wing media, that we would include a note disassociating ourselves with the paper, we picked up a copy of The Sun too, as it only cost 40p, versus the rather pricey £3.49 for a roll of wrapping paper. We also nabbed some Sellotape (in actual fact, it was likely WHSmith's own brand tape, but sod it) to join sheets of said newspaper in such a way as to conceal the nature of the bear to its recipient.
Although Juliett had allowed for the purchase of The Sun, he would not go as far as to show any affiliation with me as I paid at the counter. His declaration of such refusal to even be in the shop as I paid was met with a similar refusal from Whiskey. I was left alone in line, to buy a teddy bear, two rolls of Sellotape, and a copy of The Sun. For comedic purposes, I would like to say the cashier gave me a subtle look of disgust, but I think the word "confusion" would do her expression more justice. Indeed, in her position, I too would be both confused and saddened to see a teen paying good money for such Conservative rubbish as any of Rupert Murdoch's publications. That said, I might also consider the possibility that a male of such an age may be buying the paper solely for its third page.
I left the counter – change and receipt in hand – and promptly cursed my companions for their desertion of me an obvious time of need. Not to dwell, we pressed on, making our way back towards college. The budget may have been exceeded, but I needed tape for wrapping other gifts, and if one tells oneself that they're all just pretending, reading The Sun's "journalists'" articles can be amusing enough to warrant the price. Still, the knowledge that I had voluntarily given money to News Corp. still clung to my conscience.
Having had my suggestion of wrapping the gift on a bench at the side of the dual carriageway met with strong disapproval, we wondered back onto the college campus, with little idea of where to smother our bear in newspaper without seeming overly conspicuous. We headed into the N block, in search of a room not being used at the time. Perhaps thanks to Sod's Law, we found that all of the rooms were peculiarly all in use, which left us with little idea of where to go. My first suggestion was under the stairs, and as time ticked by I ignored the objections of Juliett and Whiskey. I started to pull items out of the bag while crouched under the last flight of stairs at the rarely traversed back of the the building. Unfortunately, the objections only grew, and my partners in crime joining me under the stairs was not going to happen any time soon. I was eventually coaxed out from my new cubby-hole in the stairwell, and away from my new friend, an electric floor cleaner.
I proposed another option; to simply crouch outside of the building – in the bitter cold, mind – which was met with less disapproval than my previous suggestions. After explaining that if anyone were to ask questions, we could simply say we were playing a joke with friends, which was ironically close to the truth, the location was decided upon. We quickly started to wrap, with Juliett handling the measuring and cutting of tape, and Whiskey warning us of the time. We wrapped the bear in the most inconspicuous manner we could, making sure to obscure the shape and size of the item. We did our best with the time available, but we also wanted to deliver the item directly to the room in which it would be required, saving our friend (who we'll call Hotel, for the sake of following previously-outlined convention) the embarrassment of giving another 16–17 year old a fluffy teddy bear, and to also leave him in the dark as to what we had bought.
With only a small amount of fur still poking out between sections of torn Sun, we set out to scout the rooms our friend has maths class in. While Juliett and I had wrapped, Whiskey had used his iPod and Hotel's student ID number to find a timetable. We had three rooms to visit before our buses left, which could have happened within as few as ten minutes. We hastily moved towards the P block, but found that the room on the timetable was apparently no longer in use for maths and had been filled with computers. That ruled out one. The second we visited showed no sign of a teacher or the conveniently placed box with a "Secret Santa 2014" label on the side and half-filled with brightly coloured presents of various shapes and sizes that we would have liked to encounter. We moved towards the third room, passing through another room in which I have some maths lessons. We even asked my teacher, who happened to be sat in said room, about the Secret Santa, but he'd heard nothing of it. Meanwhile, the minute hand on the wall casually glided past 1, marking 5 minutes (if we were lucky) until buses left.
We searched through the empty third room, but found no sign of what we were looking for. We came to the conclusion that the best way forward was for me to take home the bear, who we had renamed to a far more fitting Hamish; finish the wrapping process properly; and attach a label indicating the intended recipient of Hamish, including a small disclaimer regarding the purchase of The Sun. I accordingly stuffed Hamish and what remained of The Sun, as well as the all-important tape, into the previously-pictured blue bag, which was then stuffed into my backpack out of sight. We decided we would need to avoid Hotel, who knew that we had ventured into town looking for a gift on his behalf, and so we approached the bus-stop vicinity from a different angle to usual. Keeping behind the library, we carefully watched for our own buses and friends who caught the same as our's. Thankfully none of us would be sharing a lift with Hotel himself, which could have compromised the integrity of our secret.
Vowing not to tell a soul, Whiskey departed for his bus, with Juliett and me deciding to hang back. Unfortunately, the former was spotted by Hotel, and had no choice but to follow in Whiskey's footsteps, otherwise revealing my position. Carefully avoiding details, Juliett denied knowing my whereabouts, and kept Hotel distracted. My curiosity got the better of me, which eventually led to my downfall, and I poked my head around the corner of the building. Hotel, naturally, decided to turn at this moment, and came hurriedly scuttling over to me, despite the restraining attempts of Juliett. Whiskey had nothing to do but helplessly watch from his still-stationary coach as Juliett and I came face-to-face with He Who Was To Be Avoided.
Luckily, we managed to convince Hotel that the gift we had acquired was magnificent, and although we couldn't tell him what it was, it was nothing to be worried about. This, understandably, did nothing but fuel his worry, and likely bring him to consider his own original idea of buying stationary from the college reprographics office. Soon enough, however, more buses arrived and carted us away, and Hotel was subsequently plunged into a weekend of mystery.
In the end, I did take Hamish home, and ensure that none of his fur was poking out of his suit of right-wing tabloid nonsense. I also clarified to the lucky chap who would receive him that we would not want to show any amount of support for Rupert, News Corp. or, in particular, The Sun, but that poor journalism was certainly cheaper than reindeer-ridden wrapping paper. In case you were interested in any way, it turned out that Hamish only needed to be handed over for Thursday, so our haste really was without necessity. I might also mention – even with the look from the cashier, the worried questioning from my parents as remnants of The Sun lay in the fire-lighting basket, and the discomfort of Britain's chilly December – I regret nothing.
Anyway, back to programming.