Cultural Review: The Museum

I chose Stourbridge College for FE mostly because I heard that Ned’s Atomic Dustbin had met there.  It was an amazing eye-opener of a world compared to my previous school.  There was smoking in classrooms, radios, flared trousers, teachers with first names and cupboards you could fit in for an entire afternoon.  AND you could kiss boys in the dark-rooms.  I remember thinking ‘This is what the sixties must have been like’ from under that sink in the Black Country of the nineties.

We had some amazing trips out on a coach with the alcoholic life-drawing teacher. (One time he made Big John do The Crab all afternoon.)  I spent several hours trying to pee into a Lucozade bottle on a bus to London and almost missed the coach back from Wales because I was buying The Offspring cds.

The Oxford Pitt Rivers Museum trip was especially poignant, not only because it was the time I fell down some steps and my tit came out but also, it was AWESOME.  I vowed to return again and it only took me twelve years to do so.

Upon the recommendation of a pal of mine, I took the Oxford Tube.  Now, the first thing you will notice about the Oxford Tube is that is is not a tube.  Nor does it become a tube or go in a tube or marry a tube.  It is a double-decker coach.  It smells less of sick than the Megabus but there are more crisp packets stuffed between the seats so it’s swings and roundabouts.  Because I live on the Oxford Tube route, I was lucky enough to be able to walk to the stop rather than hike to Victoria.  I was NOT lucky enough to get the ‘pretend to be the driver’ seat.  A stupid woman with a wolf fleece on was sitting there just being all smug and shit.  I hated her.  She was going to be my Outing Enemy.

I spent about a fortnight trying to log onto the free Wi-Fi on the bus and upon looking up, I noticed we were in the countryside, there were spring lambs leaping about the fields and THAT COW IN THE BEST SEAT WAS ASLEEP.  I hated her.  I hated her more than I hate people who ask if my glasses are real glasses.  She wasn’t pretending to drive OR taking photos of the Spring lambs.

Upon arrival of The City In Spires (nice work Oxford Marketing Board although you know tourists don’t get puns right?) I headed  to the Vaults Cafe where I had arranged to meet my  666th Twitter Follower for their prize.

He was a little more casual than he appears in his Profile Pic but we got the messy business over with, shook hands and I was off on my way again.  I was wearing these pants I’ve got that go up my bum in the back and the front.  They were doing just this as I was going down this pretty road with blossom and neat grass and nowhere for me to throw my fag butt.  I spent the entire day with pants up my arse and vagina because I think it’s illegal to yank them out in Oxford.  Yesterday I had the same problem with a pair of Wonder Woman pants.  She looked like she’d had a stroke, so I showed a passing bus.  (Another story for another time.)

Upon arrival at the Museum, I found what I remembered to be the main entrance and proceeded to find myself in a Gent’s toilets.  They’d had a little move around since the last time I came.  I found the actual entrance next to some ducks, nodded to the stairs I fell down and was instantly confronted by the AWESOME CABINET!  At this time I was in the Natural History Museum of the University Of Oxford and it dicks on the London NHM a billion billion times over.  Let’s check out the Awesome cabinet:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stayed here for quite a while until the man said I was getting snot on the glass and some kids looking from the other side were upset at seeing all my teeth at once.  Part of the charm of the Natural History/Pitt Rivers museums is that they’re really old and from the days when people thought that the best way to look at cool things would be to keep them in a drawer.  They did this with nice clothes and babies.  Look what I found when I opened a drawer next to the Awesome Cabinet:

A motherfucking trout in a drawer.  Just hanging out, all like “Hey, I’m a fish, look at me, I’ve got no genitals.” and other such boasts.  You can see a bit of my scarf in this.  That is not my penis or a ghost.  I opened another:

Half a bunny.  Happy Easter kids.  One year on Easter, Wendy and my dad took me and my brother to Chirk Castle for a walk and shit.  (You may remember Wendy from such posts as Spa Day and the hashtag #TextsFromWendy).  While we were walking round the gardens looking at the boring fucking plants and shit, we came upon a rabbit that had been torn apart by foxes or Wolverines or cavemen.  Wendy told my brother and I that this was the Easter Bunny.  We were seven and two years old respectively.  (I just had a look and the formatting of this post has frottaged itself.  Fuck it.)

It was lunch time and some kids on a school trip/borstal outing were settling down to eat catfood sandwiches.  I saw someone else deciding what to have for lunch.

I’ll put some more pictures and shit in now.

And then I tripped over a child eating houmous (stupid fuck) and went down the stairs to the Pitt Rivers Museum.  I met a lady and asked her for a torch.  You can borrow torches cause it’s all dark and old victorian cabinets and shit.  (Very exciting) I told the torch lady all about the last time I came here and how I loved it and then I fell down some steps and my tit came out and I don’t think she actually gave any kind of a fuck.  I then realised that Oxford does not follow the same rules as everywhere else, because I had gone DOWN steps so I was underneath the earth….AND THE SKY COULD BE SEEN THROUGH THE GLASS CEILING.  I had a little sit down and a weep as I thought about this.

Hehe, I said drawers.  In the old days that meant crotchless knickers.  So Pitt Rivers was like this dude who went exploring, or had a job with the army or something to do with guns or the MoD.  You could Google it I guess.  And anyway, he went everywhere and plundered and stole all this interesting tat/shit/AWESOMENESS and it’s totally just jammed in all these cupboards with millions of things in there so we can look at them and go ‘ooh the old days were cool’.  I’ll show you some stuff now.

All these bits were in the Witchcraft Department.  I pulled out one of the drawers but can’t remember what was in there but I do know I wanted to steal it all.  Unfortunately, the gallery staff had met me before and took it upon themselves to cover all the cool shit with perspex.  My handbag wasn’t that big so I wouldn’t have got away with loads.  Worrywarts.

I was just balancing my phone and torch on the glass to get a cool shot of the witch in the bottle (One of my brother’s favourite things) when I heard cajoling and frivolity behind me.  A group of youths had been lucky enough to be brought to the museum at approximately the same age as I was the first time I came here and I fell down the steps and my tit fell out.  Two were kissing, one was texting, several were taking drugs I think.  Oh how I rolled my eyes and slowly shook my head while chuckling.  I approached the one with the shortest acrylic nails and imparted the advice that she would look back on this day for many years to come as a highlight in collective archiving.

Silly old cunt is what I think she called me.  One of the boys did that weird clicky thing and another put his hand in his pants. I saw their teacher crying later on the steps where my tit had come out.

I was slowly approaching my MOST BEST BIT.  The Tsantsa department. (Shrunken heads.)  To prepare a Tsantsa, you first get a head.  Any one will do, but a dead one will be best.  You then slit it along the back of the scalp and slowly peel the skin away from the skull, leaving you with what resembles a wrestling mask but a bit more made from a man’s face.  You then must stuff this with pebbles, put a big stone on the middle, sew-up all orifices (orifi?) and simmer slowly on a low heat for several days.  Don’t boil it else you’ll fuck it up.  Then leave in the sun to dry out after it’s contracted around the rocks, add a natty leather strap and wear about your body to parties or formal events.

And then there were like loads of bones and spears and stuff and I was hungry so can’t remember much.  I’d been there about three hours though.  That’s longer than I go to work some days.

[ETA: ARGH LOOK AT THE GHOST DRUID WITH GLOWING EYES IN THIS PHOTO.  No lie, that was not there when I took it.  Call Derek and Sam.]

 

Alright, that’ll do pig.  So yeah, it was well fucking good and you should go.  If any of you decide to go on the back of this Cultural Review please do let me know.

I proceeded to head back to the Oxford Tube stop, did not fall down steps, tit did not come out, pants stayed up vagina, lost the bus stop.

5*, swift delivery, would visit again A++++++++

 

ETA :

April 12, 2011. Uncategorized. 10 comments.