Amy Winehouse.

On the 23rd July 2011, yet another huge talent was taken from the world in the form of Amy Winehouse.

Like most people, I can't say that I was genuinely shocked by the news, however it did hit me a lot harder than I ever thought it would - she was so hugely influential both in terms of style and the revival of British music that it's hard to comprehend that she's no longer here.

I can still remember the Christmas when, as a young teenager, her debut album was plastered all over the television here in England. I can still remember my Father commenting on how unusual it was for an artist of that particular genre to be featured on mainstream TV. I can still remember rushing out to HMV and buying a copy of 'Frank' as part of his Christmas present that year.

I wouldn't say that she was on my list of favourite artists but that is more to do with differing musical tastes rather than lack of appreciation. Her voice was phenomenal and the way in which she performed was nothing short of effortless - something which many began to forget towards the end as the surrounding media circus began to eclipse her talent.

If ever a study was needed as to the effects of fame on a troubled human being, you need look no further than Amy Winehouse.

Drug addiction has a terrible stigma attached to it and society needs to wake up and realise that the age old attitude of 'they've made their bed, they should lie in it' is not the answer. It is an illness that takes countless lives from the world year upon year and the worst part is that it really doesn't need to happen.

We are all human and only as strong as we think we are. Turning a blind-eye is not the way forward - with a bit of help and understanding, this tragic loss of life can easily be avoided.

It's just a shame that it takes such a high profile death such as Amy's for people to even begin listening.

The Fez & Moomin show.

On the 13th June, after months of reading about ferrets and pining after a pet, these little guys entered my life.

The grey coloured one is Fez and the white albino is Moomin. You'd never realise from their names that they are both girls but what can I say, I'm stubborn once I have an idea in my head.

A lady at work (Caroline) mentioned a while back that her daughter was looking to get a couple of baby ferrets to replace one that had just passed away so I told her to let me know if she managed to find any for sale. It turned out that she remembered so one Monday night, I dragged Adam over to some thug's house on the outskirts of the city and bought the little critters.

I'm not going to lie - they are an absolute nightmare. The phrase 'little monsters' really doesn't cut it but that aside, they really are the cutest, goofiest animals that you could ever wish to come across. No matter how awful my day at work has been, seeing Fez and Moomin bouncing around the room and sliding along skirting boards always makes me smile. I'd just love to know where they get all their energy from.

Initially, I kept them indoors as it seemed just plain cruel to keep such tiny little animals outside but that lasted just two weeks. Plenty of people had warned me about how much ferrets can smell and they definitely weren't wrong. It isn't an awful smell - it is kind of sweet and earthy (nowhere near as bad as wet dog) but it wasn't something that I wanted lingering around the room in which I sleep. Needless to say, they are now outside - in a hutch that rivals most manor houses.

After reading a few horror stories regarding neutering ferrets too early, I've decided to wait until at least October before I take them to the vets. Having said that, judging by just how crazy and mollycoddling ferret owners appear to be on the forums, I'm going to take most of what I read with a pinch of salt. After all, they were originally bred in the darkest depths of North Yorkshire for rabbit hunting - I'm sure they're pretty tough little beasts.

Pride 2011.

I've gotten into the age old habit of neglecting my blog again. Having said this, I refuse to waste any more web space on cliche 'I am still alive' posts so let's just acknowledge how crappy I am and move swiftly on. Deal?

As is typical in the ever changing life of Wayne, there have been a few interesting events to note over the past few months (this never used to be the case I assure you) - however, as I am the literary version of a marathon-running fat kid, you'll have to forgive me whilst I catch up.

Saturday 9th July was Pride weekend here in Lincoln. As this is probably one of the tiniest cities you could ever wish to come across in England, the event itself nowhere near rivals that of London or Manchester but it is still fun nonetheless and it's always fun to drag friends along that would never normally dream of attending.

Historically, Pride has always been held in the grounds of the university but this year they excelled in their choice of location - a park situated in the city's medieval quarter.  Despite a few early showers (as is typical of this damn country), it turned out to be a beautiful day and as a result, the number of attendees appeared to be a lot higher than usual - always a good sign.

Some would say that it was all down to the vocal talents of X-Factor's Rachel Adedeji. Personally, I'd thank the amazing chicken and chorizo paella.

Or beer...

Most likely the latter.

We apologise for the slight delay in proceedings.

So once again, I've managed to claim a tiny slice of the web before promptly abandoning it within the space of weeks. The story of my life.

Having said that, I'm actually not quite sure why it happens. I regularly lie awake at night with thoughts racing through my head, wishing that I had somewhere to vent and type it all out but lately, for some unknown reason it has been happening more and more. Queue the resurrection of plustwentyone.

In keeping with tradition (if you can call two previous posts that), my new posts will more than likely consist of ramblings, observations and anything else that I may be able to glean from daily life.

They may be dull or even mildly entertaining but I can promise you that they certainly won't change the world.

Many thanks to those of you that hung around and stuck with me during the break in transmission - say hi and give me a heads up in the comments!

Comfort.

As the purpose of this blog is to document the more memorable moments in life (a life portfolio if you will), then you could say that today's events hold quite a significance in the life of a young man and therefore deserve their written place in cyberspace.

I drove my very first car for the very first time.

Followers of my previous blog would be forgiven for thinking 'Huh, what about the old car you had? Was it a figment of our imaginations?' but the truth is it was never really mine, I was merely on my Father's insurance. It wasn't the most ideal of situations as it resulted in many arguments to the tune of 'are you using the car this weekend?' and an endless amount of blackmail. To begin with, the arrangement was great as my Dad always used the work van and never had much to do with the car but after a year or so, the dreaded 'ladyfriend' came on the scene meaning that I then rarely saw my Dad himself let alone the car. I guess it was just something I had to live with as I was about to embark on my university studies and running a car of my own was something that I would definitely not have been able to afford. This way, I at least had some access to a vehicle whilst I was home.

A few months ago, eager to oust me out onto the streets so that his girlfriend could move in for his son to find himself a job and begin exploring the big wide world, my Father decided to buy me a shiny new Vauxhall Corsa. Sky blue with one previous elderly owner, I fell in love at first sight and knew that it would be the perfect first car. The one pictured above isn't actually mine but it is the same model except for the fact that mine has four doors - I couldn't handle the sheer amount of clambering that results from a two door bean-tin.

For months it sat abandoned at the bottom of the garden, taunting me each night as I drew the curtains ready for bed. Father had made it perfectly clear that I was allowed the car only if I managed to secure myself a job after graduation. Now on the surface, this sounds like a kind gesture - a Dad providing his child with transport to help him get back on his feet. In reality, it is actually yet another in a long line of machiavellian schemes that my Father uses in order to motivate/blackmail me into actually getting off of my arse. Trust me, I know him just as well as he knows me.

Luckily, said scheme worked more effectively than usual and I forced myself off of my arse long before graduation. So fast in fact that I secured a job and insured the car both within the space of a week; don't worry though, I have already set aside two months worth of arse-sitting to make up for it.

So this morning, clutching the documents fresh from the post I sauntered on up to the village post office and stood stumped for half an hour as I stared at the shelves full of forms, unable to quite workout the necessary procedure for taxing a car. Fortunately, someone was able to understand what the hell I was trying to do and ten minutes later I left £67 lighter and a tax disc heavier. I'm now beginning to understand exactly what my friends mean when they say that their vehicles haemorrhage money (and yes, that did just take me five minutes to work out how to spell - cheers America with your abnormal language differences).

I get home, throw the disc into a vaguely noticeable position in the window, start the car and in true English style decide that my very first destination is going to be the holy grail of supermarkets: Tesco. I don't know what it is about that blue and white striped retail hellhole but it always seems to be the target destination for the bored. When I first passed my test, where did I go? Tesco. When we were bored after the Summer Ball, where did we go? Tesco. It isn't even interesting and is almost always choc full of chavs but I suppose it's one of those places that you know that you are always near and will always be open...... and now it has taken my first-drive-in-my-new-car virginity. I feel dirty just typing it, much like the car at this present moment.

To be fair, I actually did very little in Tesco. After sitting in the car park for at least ten minutes, stroking the dash and removing fluff from every orifice (the car's, not mine), I fought my way in through the hoards of dithering housewives, grabbed a Jelly Belly air freshener (pear scented, naturally) and a magnetic tax disc holder and bombed it back out of there. I did encounter an embarrassing situation involving some cheap Gin and a pack 'n' scan but I'll save that for the next blog dry spell. Hardly worth the half an hour trip but we all waste our lives in different ways ay?

All that is left now is to whip out the bucket and chamois and give it a good old clean before we embark on our first journey of substantial distance tomorrow. I'm off to a uni friend's 21st and I can't be seen rocking up in filth-on-wheels - reputation and all that! That's if we actually make it of course. I have visions of the handbrake falling through the floor - a reoccurring nightmare that still haunts me courtesy of a disaster filled trip to Cornwall back when I was nine.

When it comes to the importance of names, I'm completely stumped and I've been unable to come up with anything as catchy as Ronnie, the previous Renault. The model - Comfort, is emblazoned on the passenger side door and though it would be easy to settle for Comfort the Corsa, I don't feel as though the personality of the car really reflects that of a sassy Jamaican housewife.

I think I'll ponder it a little longer....

A new chapter.

So this is it, I've managed to land my first ever job (second if you count my brief stint at the old folks home when I was sixteen but I don't, so you shouldn't either).

I have always believed myself to be somewhat of a lazy arse (yes, that's the official term) but I guess the fact that I haven't yet graduated and have already found good full time work would suggest otherwise. Needless to say, I'm extremely proud of myself. I think it has shocked my dear Father too; I'm convinced that he had been preparing himself with sufficient funds to keep me up until Christmas at least. With my track record, who can blame him?

I suppose that living away for so long has given me a taste of independence that I am reluctant to give up. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being at home - I love the abundance of food and not having to worry about rent and bills, but I now feel a total stranger in the family home in which I grew up. It's a strange feeling, as though I belong here yet I shouldn't be here. My Dad has been amazing over the past year, a year that has been a great struggle both emotionally and financially and I will be forever grateful to him for that. In fact, I genuinely look forward to the day that I am able to repay him for the kindess he has shown and I have assured him that it will happen.

The recruitment process for this job has been a huge pain in my side over the past two months. I first put myself forward back in June, though if I had known that it would prove to be such a long and drawn out process, I often wonder whether I would have ever bothered. It resulted in numerous agency meetings, multiple trips back and forth to Lincoln and a couple of interviews. At one point, I genuinely believed that I had accidentally applied for The Apprentice, that or an episode of Punk'd - either way, both sound entirely plausible. Finally after months of titting around, I received the call yesterday and I start on the 16th. My relief, however, was short lived as they explained that three permanent positions would be given to three of us after three months if we proved to be good workers. It seems they really do hold a love for business based reality shows.

The job itself is a graduate management training programme for a partner to Lincolnshire's Local Education Authority. Basically I am trained for a year or so to eventually manage their marketing department. There are three graduate manager jobs at the end of it and they have taken on three trainees (including myself) so to be honest, it's not much of a competition; I think they've just given themselves the option to get rid of someone if they aren't pulling their weight. I realise how lucky I am to have been selected out of the initial forty applicants as I am only just about to graduate and I have never worked in my life. My CV resembles the Sahara desert, I kid you not. It is flattering to think that their attraction to me has come almost entirely from meeting me, as on paper, I'm about as exciting as a plate of peas. The moral to this story is that, if I can blag my way through life, anyone can. No excuses.

I'd be lying if I said that 2010 has been a good year so far as I can safely say that it has easily been one of the worst but finally I can see things slotting together. The fog is clearing and I'm beginning to get a picture of where I will be in a few months time. I can already feel myself starting to relax, a sorely missed feeling that I welcome back with open arms, no matter how short lived.

It's a new chapter and an appropriate time for a new blog. They say that it's out with the old and in with the new and believe me, I'm determined to do just that.