Life is one long window-shopping session, but we don’t actually want to go in…

Recently I watched a documentary on the discovery channel to do with incredible human body procedures. This particular episode focussed on the brain. In one segment, it talked about this one chap who had suffered a spelunking accident and had fallen into an un-climbable hole in the cave system he was exploring. He ended up stuck there for around 28 days, which of course meant he suffered dreadfully from a lack of food and drink. The program informed me that one of the brain's most central programming procedures is to constantly search for food, but when no food is available it goes into an `overdrive` state, during which the consumption of bodily fats and even muscles is accelerated to a drastic speed, and the body is forced to scour every nook and cranny of the surrounding area in a desperate attempt to find food.

Interesting as it is, that's a very simple statement; we need food, so we go find something to eat. But it got me thinking about the concept of wanting things you don't, and sometimes CAN'T have.

 

People often joke or complain about wanting things that they can't have, or aren't allowed to have. Mostly the whiny teenagers of Facebook or the creepy denizens of internet forums, if I'm honest. But it is a common theme nonetheless.
I got to thinking, why is this? Why do we always seem to want what we can't have? It's always that level of attachment we just can't seem to break off – we can never seem to think to ourselves; "Okay, out of my reach. Forget about it and move on." The thing we want is always at the back of our heads, occupying our thoughts constantly.
This occurs a lot for almost everybody. We find new products we can't wait to get our hands on, see adverts for a movie we really want to watch, hell – fall in love! There's hundreds of reasons for people to suddenly want something, and just as many holding us back.

Hell, in the middle ages this was SUPPOSED to happen; in those days, there was the concept of `courtly love` for example, frequently involving knights engaging in jousts and melee combat to win the favour of ladies who were already married. The Spartans had a wedding ceremony involving the man having to physically kidnap the woman from her home. (And the hardest challenge kids these days face is getting their text saying "I <3 U. Go owt w me?" in before someone else…) This is based mostly around the principle that you're SUPPOSED to love someone out of your reach, and must overcome certain obstacles to `prove your worth` or something, but the principle still stands.

It just gets to me that these days we no longer expect barriers to the same degree- we seem to have the mental attitude that most everything is obtainable with a little effort, yet throughout history we were brought up to think that `everything is above you. You've got no chance of achieving anything`. (Unless you're hereditarily rich, of course…) This leads to the issue that people tend to throw a bit of a hissy fit these days when things seem out of reach, but are usually more in the "curl up in a ball and throw a tantrum" or "get depressed and expect attention" modes rather than the "try and fix things" mode. In essence, give it a few hundred years and our nation will likely be reduced to a group of lazy slobs who aren't even willing to get up out of their chair to go find food. An unwillingness to try because it seems too hard will eventually be able to override the brain's core functions.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, that at this rate people will eventually lose the will to try altogether. Not just at trying to hook up with people, but at everything. We'll become robots. Or just huge blobs of fat on a sofa, take your pick…

 

Of course, it isn't only that – it's DEPRESSING. Like I said, one of modern man's choice reactions these days seems to be to get all depressed about things rather than either a) move on or b) not give up and keep fighting. Now don't get me wrong, I'm guilty of my fair share of this myself. But I'm only human like everyone, and I've grown up in an age where this seems to be the accepted norm. Granted, it is INCREDIBLY hard to try and NOT get upset about something that's really upsetting you, but my point is that our ancestors were bred to do just that. They were bred with the expectations that failure was guaranteed, and success – when it came – was something to be savoured, not casually accepted. Our psychology leads us to casually accept success and become depressed over failures. Before I go on, I cannot express enough how, as per usual, I'm generalising hugely. There are of course a great many people out there who never give up no matter what, and embrace failure as a way to capitalise on their mistakes. Yet considering the size of the human population, a "great many" people just isn't really enough.

Here's my advice to David Cameron – if you really want to make the nation happier, instead of spending two million pounds on a "happiness survey" that tells us EXACTLY what we already knew, start being tougher on the younger generation. We're being spoon fed, if I'm brutally honest. Let's have a global crackdown on telling kids that "everything is going to be okay", because we're just encouraging laziness. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to make unemotional hard cases out of everyone – I just think that telling people to suck it up and man up a bit won't go amiss.

I'm serious – being tougher people will likely improve humanity no end…

The dichotomy of skill

Wow, it's been a while since I last posted…

In my defense, I have been incredibly busy with school work and band projects over the last few months – but never fear, I've now managed to put all that behind me and move on. I think I might also be the only person to have compared finishing his school work to breaking up with a girlfriend…
Over the last few months, myself and our A2 drama class have been hugely busy preparing, writing, rehearsing and performing our practical devised piece; this involved staying in the studio until around eight in the evening most nights for the past two weeks or so rehearsing an highly complex and hugely physical piece of theatre. For those who think theatre is all about dressing up in tights and prancing around a stage quoting Shakespeare, think again – go Youtube `DV8` or `Frantic Assembly`; two companies who are great proponents of the physical theatre style, and whose own twists on physical theatre we attempted to emulate. Evidently successfully, as the examiner gave the entire class full marks for performance. With this out of the way, I've been free to concentrate on more important things, such as writing for you people and re-taking up Warhammer. I hope my efforts are appreciated. Not the Warhammer bit, the blogging bit…

 

So what's put me in a position to write again, you ask?
Good question, I reply.
The answer is simple – the other things that I've been given lease to do in my newly found free time (mostly revolving around my band… www.antiguajazz.moonfruit.com. Check us out.) have given rise to a niggling thought at the back of my brain.

Recently I went to a concert by the fantastic musician Courtney Pine – a jazz performer whose main instrument is bass clarinet. I must admit, however, that it wasn't entirely my cup of tea; what Courtney claimed was `jazz` appeared to be no more than an attempt to cram in as many notes as possible. This in turn led to a lot of squeaks and semi-bum notes. However, because we were dazzled by an astounding array of notes coming out of the end of his clarinet, nobody in the audience (aside from myself) seemed to care – applauding him along with the next man simply for the astounding speed with which he pulled out the simplest of scales. I don't mean to sound like "that guy" here, but if one of my band members tried to pull such a trick I would slap them. It sounds impressive for a few bars, but swiftly gets old – especially when that's your only soloing technique. The thing is, if one of us attempted to try this `technique` we would be booed/laughed off the stage, yet Courtney Pine can get away with it partially due to his fame, and partially because he was performing in a big venue.

My question to the world is thus; why can celebrities/stars get away with the things us ordinaries can't? Sure, people complain about celebrities getting off for doing drugs/shoplifting/whatever out in the wider world when normal people get sent down for it every day, but I'm asking why performers are allowed to get away with a lapse performance when a non-professional or amateur would get laughed off a stage for doing the same. I'm starting to think that in today's society, only celebrities are allowed to criticize other celebrities. Or at least, criticize them and make a credible point.
It's the same case with people like Lindsay Lohan or Britney Spears – criticize one of those types of super celebs and the fanboys will immediately rush to their side shouting "leave her alone! She's had such a hard time! You've no idea what she's been through!". Well, actually, yes we have. Some people have in fact been through a lot worse yet still get victimized, and nobody rallies to their side. In the case I've been describing above, this effect materializes in the form of critics who will endlessly (and rather annoyingly) defend every minor detail of a duff performance, claiming it has some "infallible deeper meaning" and that if we can't see that we clearly have no soul. It's exactly the same with modern artwork. Call it what you want, Specky McArtCritic, it's still just a blob of ink thrown at a canvas and you, like the total sucker you are, are willing to pay ludicrous amounts of money to fathom deep expressionism and emotion embroiled within its' inky, blobby folds.
Tell you what, I'll spill some coffee on a canvas, hang it in the Tate Modern and you can pay me millions of pounds so you can stare at it and come up with a load of bollocks about what it means. Here's a shortcut – MONEY is what it means. Do something different to get noticed, and then get lazy is the motto of some modern artists/performers. Produce a few good recordings and make a name for yourself, then play absolute rubbish on stage – don't worry about pleasing the crowd, hardcore fans will always defend you simply because of the name.

Why performers/artists can't just work with what works in itself is beyond me. Laziness is the root of the problem here, I think. Laziness and moneygrubbing. It's like the cheap cash-in sequel to a movie or video game that doesn't work, makes no sense and is nowhere near as good as the original, but fans of the first will still spend their money on it due to it's predecessor's success.

 

 

It's just occurred to me that part of this post has just been a giant "fuck you" to the likes of modern artists.
Ah well, screw it. I hate modern art anyway.

If you're going to entertain for a job, at least put some bloody effort in. If you don't, you're not in the right line of work buddy…

Individualism, identity and the social paradox.

"Never forget who you are. If we lose our identity, we lose our individualism. If we are no longer individuals, we are no longer human."

Ironically, individuality is a concept that appears to be sadly lacking from the modern world – society would have us all be living, breathing paragons of virtue and social conformity, yet this would lead to us following each other blindly like sheep.

It seems individualism can only be expressed by a varying taste in music, film or fashion. To quote the great philosopher Stewie Griffin: "…you can see it on my MySpace page, along with songs and films and things that other people have created but I use to express my individualism." Sure, who we are and what we do as individuals should logically be defined by character rather than possessions, yet differential behaviour is such a rarity these days that it seems any man who acts differently is immediately outcast from society as abnormal and an outsider. As soon as humanity feels discomfort with anything that does not conform to social normalities, it is immediately branded as wrong.

As a case study, take the character of Meursault from Albert Camus' book `The Outsider`. Meursault, an autistic French colonist of Algiers, is pushed further and further from the circle of society over the course of a rollercoaster series of events due to race, social skills and (most importantly) his refusal to lie. Here is a man who cannot understand the concept of lying – his entire life is based on truth. Truth is the central value that civilisation is supposedly built on, what our world intendedly revolves around. The irony is, of course, that Meursault (and ourselves) operate in a society built upon lies – there is no truth to modern civilisation, other than that it is the greatest paradox the world has ever seen. A society of lies is the ideal of a civilisation craving truth in order to counteract uncertainty and the hyperbole of humanity's truth. Meursault's individualism led him to live a life that his society claimed all citizens should lead, yet in fact it victimised those who did. The progress of the individual was once again halted – individuals, people who are supposedly encouraged. Allegedly we should all strive to be individual, to be different, and to stand out from the crowd, yet when an individual does arise and attempts to adhere to this claim, they are brought down by the unspoken tenet that individualism and change are (supposedly) wrong.

I feel somewhat idiotic asking the blatantly rhetorical question, but when is the human race going to open its eyes and witness its own hypocrisy? Without realising it, we tailor our lives to suit everything and everyone around us before stopping to think about what's right for ourselves. Condemnation of the unnatural only creates the greatest paradox – new is change, and civilisation is constantly changing. As a conglomerate the human race is constantly adapting and evolving and of course society changes with it, and this is brought about by individualists. New concepts and ideas are brought forward, the more remarkable are accepted and glorified (or at least made famous) and the unwanted are vilified, condemned or simply forgotten – left to dredge the murky annals of history for all eternity. Karl Marx and communism, the development of democracy, James Dean. A few examples of individuals and concepts that have inspired and influenced change.

Sadly, thanks to the society we live in today, individualism is vilified and abhorred by the masses. Social conformity is encouraged in all walks of life, be it the pure, law-abiding citizen or the hood-toting, foul-mouthed "chav".

Thus, it takes a truly heroic individual to make a stand and become their own person. It seems we can no longer truly advance in the world by being who we are. Yet without individualism and identity, we lose the one thing that truly makes us human.

Humanity – we differentiate ourselves from the "other animals" of the world because we have the capability of free thought. Yet when this is quenched by the very society that encouraged us to be different, where does that leave us? Are we still human? Have we become the very animals we seek to distance ourselves from?

I shall end by summarising my argument in a few of my own words you may recognise;

Never forget who you are. If we lose our identity, we lose our individualism. If we are no longer individuals, we are no longer human.

Kick-Ass: The Movie

Okay, so it seems people have been demanding to know why I've not immediately fallen in love with the film "Kick-Ass", whether for its soundtrack, action scenes or pure, brutal fun.

Let me highlight a certain point I think should be made here; I don't think Kick-Ass was a BAD film, I just didn't think it was particularly good. Partially this may have been due to my entering the cinema with completely the wrong mindset. Until the day itself, all I had seen of the film were a few adverts on busses and roadside posters that read; "Get ready to KICK-ASS!" whilst accompanied by a picture of a goofy teenager in a luminous green diving suit striking a suitably un-heroic pose. It didn't look like the mildly gory, violence-filled, swearfest that the film turned out to be.

(For those who take issue with my language complaint, it's more so the characters using the language than the actual language itself. I go to a school – in schools bad language is commonplace. It's not commonplace, however, to see an eleven year old girl use the "Big C" word onscreen. It came as a bit of a shock.)

In its defense of course, the movie may have just suffered at the hands of a poor advertisement department. This isn't the director's fault at all, so for this discrepancy I will not blame him.

What the movie did do well was to impart some sense of characterization within many of the main parts (Most notably the character of Dave/Kick-Ass, who in the comic the movie was based on was a stilted, one-dimensional moron whom one couldn't help but dislike. {See my last blog post "Mark Millar…" for full details.}), bringing charm to what can easily be described as a dark comedy. I say easily described in a sense that; sure, we could call it a dark comedy and that would be wholly accurate. It's not perhaps the most precise description, however – it's more one long comedic action sequence with darker material thrust between scenes, and I can assure you that the darker material is VERY dark indeed; when you feel like squirming in your seat, the director's done his job and here he has.

Just a short point to be made about the score and soundtrack choice; Five stars. As a bit of a film-music buff, I've got to say that the music was apt, well-chosen and provided the perfect setting to many of the more confusing or darker scenes in the film. Credit where it's due. Thought I'd put that one out in the open for you…

There are certain issues, however, in that the remarkable work Arran Johnson (Dave) has done in creating a likeable character is often masked by the sheer awesomeness of Big Daddy (Nicolas Cage) and Hit Girl (Chloe Morentz). These two form the definition of "scene stealing" in any section of the film they perform in, and even when off the screen. The new, likeable Dave Lizewski is shoved aside when Cage begins adding his signature onscreen craziness to the movie, and Morentz's adorable little girl/badass superhero completely detracts from Johnson's superb effort to bring the character of Dave back to life.

Speaking of the action scenes, this was another thing the film pulled off remarkably well. (A nod to one of the few talents of the creative mind behind the comic – Mark Millar.) However, despite the apparent coolness of many of the scenes and their pure, brutal fun, they often seemed to be parodies or hinting at sections of popular culture which I believe should be left out of the film. For instance, when Hit-Girl engages the gangsters in a pitch-black room using nightvision, a Desert Eagle and an underslung knife any fans of Call of Duty will be forgiven for thinking that Captain Price had just entered the fray. The similarities between Big Daddy and Batman are once again pushed forwards during the combat scene in the warehouse – watch the combat scenes in "Batman Begins" (The first Christian Bale one), and you'll soon see where I'm coming from. Trust me though, these scenes can be seriously cool. For any gamers out there, I'm actually thinking that one or two Kick-Ass scenes are not such a great distance behind some scenes from the likes of Devil May Cry. (It's still a considerable distance – Devil May Cry contains, pound-for-pound, the most awesome action scenes in existence. Even friends of mine who are non-gamers think they look cool…)

Actually, mentioning Batman – It's obvious that the Big Daddy character was created with a nod to the Caped Crusader, but to paraphrase one film reviewer; "Cage's `Big Daddy` might just make the best Batman EVER." This is a statement I find difficult to disagree with if one watches the warehouse scene, and takes a look at the wackier, humorous side of Big Daddy when out of costume. This is a much better portrayal of Batman than any other actor has managed to achieve thus far, especially Christian Bale's one-dimensional, moody, testosterone-fuelled, macho screenhugger. So, congratulations, Hollywood's greatest. Without actually being in a Batman film, Cage has managed to portray a better Batman than all of you who were actually paid to perform the role. Good job.

Mark Millar: The Good, The Bad-Ass and The Incredibly Ugly.

Mark Millar…Mark Millar…

I just don't know what to make of the man, sometimes. Is he trying to make us laugh, cry, shout, scream, or drop a cup of tea in shock?

However, anyone with half a brain cell can tell that this man has some serious issues that need working out. Now I'm no great scholar of the world of Mark Millar, so don't expect some profound insight into him, his lifestyle, whether he likes puppies or his preference for underwear. I'm merely going to comment on his work and what makes his writing so incredibly…different. Not necessarily in a good way.

For those who don't know, Mark Millar is the author of the comic books (I hate to use the phrase "graphic novel", as it sounds like an attempt to make something cultured out of a six-year-old's choice reading material.) that spawned the films "Wanted" and, more recently, "Kick-Ass". A great philosopher once said: "Wanted was an embarrassment." Here I would be forced to agree for the most part, though I deem it necessary to highlight that at this point, we were discussing the film. The film was a bit of a joke, but that didn't stop it in achieving its main goal; it was fun, and that was all it ever set out to do. It never intended to challenge the top sci-fi action films like "The Matrix" for their spot as kings of the genre; it was just pure adrenaline-fuelled macho fun. Plus it had Morgan Freeman, which gives it bonus points on any level. It also made a damn good movie to game crossover, one of the few movie-tie-in games that I would recommend to anybody. The other entrant to the category being The Lord of the Rings.

The comic, however, was slightly different. It was great fun on the first read through – absolutely fantastic artwork made for a brilliant set of action scenes which (admittedly) Millar is very good at. He choreographs his action sequences well, and keeps it fluid throughout where many comic action scenes become stilted and awkward after the first couple of panels. However, the plot becomes disjointed and quickly falls apart after the first read-through. The central concept (Supervillains secretly run a heroless world) is very interesting, but it isn't really dealt with in an interesting way. It's generally treated as an excuse to be extremely violent and politically incorrect, which is fine for a bit of throw away entertainment, but doesn't really satisfy any more than that. In moments when it tried to be more than throw away fun it held up fairly well, which compounds my frustration further, because it just shows what a brilliant comic this could, and dare I say it, should have been.

Millar has a habit of touching on interesting concepts (like in Red Son, a comic about Superman as a Soviet hero), but never seems to be willing to take the plunge and dive into them, reverting back to his familiar territory of swearing, sex and violence. This could be defended as fear, but I believe the man is far too experienced an author and expresses far more shocking views in other areas to be afraid of getting riddled for his plot and context, when characters use four-letter words beginning with "f" and "c" with disturbing regularity. In essence, I think Millar is simply obsessed with his world of violence and expletives and simply doesn't care that much about his interesting plotlines, no matter their credibility. Wanted had the potential to be so great, if only Millar had spent more time with the context and background to make the world truly come alive. What we are left with is a half-baked, stilted comic written by a man with an imagination that could rival Tolkien's, but all the dedication of a roast duck sandwich.

Again we see this in Millar's latest epic horror story; Kick-Ass. As with the case of Wanted, I saw the Kick-Ass film before reading the comic. However, unlike Wanted I gained nothing positive from the experience. While Wanted went from superb to average to another average (game, film, book), Kick-Ass went from below-average to downright dire. I think that in the gap between Wanted and Kick-Ass, Millar spent his time doing three things; Inflating his already immense ego, hiring on a different artist and watching far too much Quentin Tarantino. Millar's action scenes, once incredibly well-done and a saving grace of much of his work, have been mired in the fact that they all now seem to be giving a nod to his own concepts. They all reflect his own idealistic nature and seem to give off a grace of "seen this before" to any of Millar's dedicated readers. Now if I can spot this having only read one or two of his other works, surely even his most dedicated fans can see he is beginning to fray at the edges somewhat? My other problem with Kick-Ass is that while Wanted and Red Son were stupid but carried themselves off as serious, Kick-Ass tries to be all serious all the time. It just doesn't work when you're watching a high school student, no older than myself, being beaten to a pulp by a gang of armed thugs. With Wanted it made for great entertainment watching a super-assassin kick ten kinds of hell into a gang of thugs who had repeatedly abused him on his way to work, and the tagline at the end of the book (a picture of Wesley grinning at the reader and the words; "This is my face while I'm f*****g your ass") made a wonderful nod to character development shown throughout the book. (Crude, I know, but it was well placed.)

Kick-Ass takes the angsty teenager thing too far, and instead of a character we can all relate to we have an emotionally devoid main character whom I couldn't help but hate. If Millar had bothered to look at the average teenage boy at all, he would realize that they at least have human emotion. We don't even have to look to deeply into the comic to find this, either – the first few panels involve Kick-Ass pondering his new life calling whilst being tortured by gang members. I won't go into detail, but it involves two jump leads, Kick-Ass' testicles and several volts of electricity. The savage beatings he endures are also ridiculous, in my opinion. No child would be idiotic enough to go back for more after the things Kick-Ass suffers. When Millar tries to step into the world of realism, he ends up taking two steps backwards.

In terms of art, Millar seems to have given up the one thing that may have saved his comic. J.G. Jones' gritty, down-to-earth artwork was one of Wanted's finer features and certainly ensured my enjoyment of the comic from page one. With Kick-Ass, John Romita Jr.'s style is one of the final nails in the coffin. It's far too cartoony and rounded – what Millar really needed to make this "realistic" comic look half real was to get an artist like Jones who uses more realistic shapes, colours and sharp edges. This just looked like a blonde Dennis the Menace. Don't get me wrong here, though; I'm not knocking JRJR's work at all – he is a very talented man – I just believe that Millar chose a man whose skills and style were inappropriate for the comic he had written. Though that's less a complaint about Millar as a man and author and more about his editorial and administrative decisions…

Finally, we look at the Quentin Tarantino reference. Tarantino has never endeared himself to me as a skilled director, but I can see where he is coming from. All his films have a deeply-ingrained meaning; they are all about film itself. His latest work, Inglourious Basterds, (the Brad Pitt one…) actually focuses on the use of film as a weapon. But his clever metaphors and use of subtext is always lost behind his need for insatiable violence. In Inglourious Basterds, both parts of the film (the Basterds themselves and the behind-the-scenes operations in the cinema) could have made an entire storyline in their own right. Tarantino could have got away with making two films, but he chose to mould them into one. As such, a large majority of the audience who went to see the film did so because they wanted to see Eli Roth beating a load of Germans to death with a baseball bat. Not the sort of viewer who would look deeply into the meaning of theatre expressed within the film, and the type who would swiftly become bored by these sections.

Millar has done a similar thing in his recent works. The objective of Wanted was never twofold; sure, there was the entire subtext about villains taking over the world, but he never spent enough time endorsing that for it to be even remotely worth looking into. It was pure, aimless, violent fun. And that's all. With Kick-Ass, Millar has tried to fit in as many different subtexts as possible in a weak attempt to make himself seem deep and has merely ended up masking any possibility of making himself credible by putting in dozens of pages about a teenager being beaten half to death. Less violence and less subtext crowbarred in, and Kick-Ass could very well have been an immense success. As it was, it just became jumbled, mashed-together drivel.

Two main concepts have made themselves obvious to me, here; Firstly is that Millar seems to have a penchant for getting his main characters hurt. Wesley Gibson (main character of Wanted) endures several severe beatings at the hands of his trainers when he is being raised to super-villain status. Now, as a means of hardening his character this is most unsavory but is at least remotely credible. This ends when Wesley's character develops into super-assassin, and he goes around dishing out the punishment. For Kick-Ass, it's just one beating after another. I have the slightly sickening feeling that Millar enjoys hurting this guy – this teenager – and masking it as entertainment. With Wesley, two things made it acceptable; One – we could at least see where Millar was going with it, even if we didn't like it. Two – he had at least finished puberty. For Kick-Ass, it just seems wrong. It's not even in the name of character development. It's just pure violence for the sake of it.

I got tired of Millar's sadistic storyline pretty quickly, but all through the comic I hoped it had a purpose or would at least stop. It of course did not. What amazes me is that he then has the gall to make his character just get straight back up and walk out of there, plaster on his nose, kick the crap out of a bunch of gang members and return home to his normal lifestyle. Hello?? Teenage boy subjected to the non-too-tender mercies of New York gangsters?? I think not…

The other is that Millar appears to dislike including mother figures for his characters for too long. In Wanted, Wesley's mother served to explain why he had pacifist tendencies and was (in the words of Millar himself) a total wimp. This allowed for a decent scope of character development. His mother died as soon as her purpose was served, however, and we never hear from her again. At least she deigned to provide the comic with one of its most substantial good points; the character development of Wesley.

In Kick-Ass, Millar kills off dear old mummy before we even start reading. This means she appears in the comic for a grand total of 0 panels. It can't just be me that thinks Millar either has something against mothers, or possibly he lost his own mother at an early age and feels he is unable to write about such a figure which I can, grudgingly, understand. But not when you put it in context with his other aspects; did he also get beaten to a pulp as a child? Or don a luminous green costume and start hitting local thugs with hockey sticks?

Unfortunately for me, other than getting a large thing off my chest, this post may be utterly useless. Millar seems to be one of those fortunate people that will always have a fan. Somewhere, someone will always be able to defend him. My great crusade will serve no other purpose than to express my views on this one-time genius and full-time lunatic.

Toodle-Pip.

Heil and Farewell…

Damn und blast und got in himmel. (That's German for "Oh Bugger".)

Once again I find myself in a hotel room with little to do and limited or no internet connectivity. This time I'm in the fabled land of Robert the Bruce, Glennfidich whisky and deep-fried Mars bars. Scotland. In a small town called Fort William, sitting directly at the summit of the tallest mountain in Britain, Mr. Benjamin Nevis.

I think now is an apt time for me to point out two small errors that have arisen around this particular hummock. (hummock –
n. Lit. A small hill. In my defence, Mr. Nevis is slightly smaller than some of the giants whose faces I have had the pleasure of sliding down at ludicrous speeds.)

Firstly, a friend of mine who is a native to this country (no names will be named), and who had recently visited Fort William less than two weeks ago, replied in text form to the news that I would be visiting the area with the following message; "Ben Nevis is in Scotland?!?"

The second fail occurred when we were a small distance from the mountain itself. My father, in the passenger seat of our transport vehicle, pointed out that; "Ben Nevis is only a few miles to our right." My mother, at the wheel, replied with the phrase; "He must be quite short, I can't see him from here..." Why we allow such a woman to drive a car I will never understand until I die...

Jokes and japes aside, dear fellows, I am afraid I must explain my recent inactivity away with a small degree of sad news on two fronts.

The first piece of sad news I must convey is that our family cat, Ebony, has passed away at seventeen years of age. As the oldest companion I have had, and one of the few constant figures in my life over the last few years due to my parent's lifestyle, she will be sorely missed. Ebby was more than just a family pet – a figure that was always present, someone to rant at after a particularly bad day, another living creature in the house when all else was silent – piercing the lack of noise with her ear-splitting wail for food, she had become a member of the family in all but genetics. In such circumstances, it is easy to understand the clichéd concept that blood is not important. Ebby had, of course, had belonged to my late grandmother Stella from whom I inherited her so to speak. She passed away on the first of April due to a combination of old age and a genetic kidney problem.

It only remains for me to say farewell and thank you to a much loved cat and family member.

 

Another segment of sad news to be imparted is the death of my beloved godfather, Mr. Fred Wedlock (born Peter Wedlock). Due to the absolutely staggering amount of work Fred did for the entertainment and music industries, as well as his endless qualities as a man and member of the community, I believe it would be inappropriate for me to provide a resume of his achievements, if you will. Forgive me for not doing so, but if you wish to find out about his works feel free to visit www.fredwedlock.com for information. I will hopefully be able to put some of Fred's music up on this site in the near future when back at the beck and call of my powerhouse PC.

Again, it is all I can do to say thank you, farewell and to give much love to a fantastic fellow such as Fred, as well as to provide my apologies for being absent from the funeral. Though I don't believe he would have wished me to miss a musical event for any reason.

Thank you.

“Ross Cronshaw; Episode 4 – Cambridge and the Curse of the mysterious Phone Stealer…”

Despite the fact that I rarely achieve my goal of producing one of these blurbs of meaningless babble all at once, I'm hoping to achieve it this time – at time of writing the title and this sentence right here, I'm sitting in my "Guest House" room at Cambridge university. I've got computer, internet, camera and video. Only one thing is missing; my phone, which appears to have been stolen from me by some tosser in the school changing rooms.

Thus, once again you find me severely annoyed and in the mood to start hitting things… Especially since I only obtained that phone relatively recently… Part of my irritation is the fact that my stupidity allowed it to be taken, if you get my meaning – it's not just the phone itself being lost that upsets me; it's the actual loss that really gets under the skin. Simply because I forgot to put it in my pocket, it's been stolen. Just that one action – take phone out of jacket, put it in trouser pocket – that takes less than a minute would have saved me a great deal of trouble. However, the lazy gene kicked in once more. Fail. Of the most Epic nature.

The worst part of this entire situation is the nature of where I am – of course, I couldn't just lose my phone on an ordinary day, could I? Oh no, I have to lose it approximately five minutes before a small group of Pocklington students take a two-day (ish) trip to Cambridge university. Thus, I'm not even in the area of my phone… If it's just lying there on the floor, it's ready and waiting for anyone to pick up, look at the contents of my inbox and then stand on repeatedly whilst they get changed into their CCF gear… Bollocks…

I repeat my previous sentiment relating to the male genitalia as, once again, I am afraid I have to admit I have reneged upon my promise I made to you this morning, dear reader. Since the start of the previous sentence, I have taken up the writing of this post once again after a long pause without returning to the computer. Perhaps if I had written a little more to begin with, we wouldn't find ourselves in such a familiar situation once more. However, this shall be fixed as soon as I can think of a suitable excuse…

So a pleasant little Cambridge visit to scout out another university which, if I were to get in, would be extremely lucky; commencement of the hard work and no fun begins…. Now…

Since time of original scribing, by the way, there has in fact been an update on the portable device of a telephonic nature. Part of it has actually been found – in my pocket, of all places! Before we all get too excited, however, there is a down side to this. If you're already excited, take a cold shower… The rest of us can wait…

 

 

Cooled down, yet? Good… The news, my friends, is thus; My phone's sim card has been returned to me. The phone itself is still missing. This, therefore, proves organized theft was the objective upon this particularly awkward Wednesday. The thief must have removed the phone from my pocket, removed the card from the phone, put the card back in my pocket and finally made off with the phone… And this is supposed to be a SCHOOL?!?!

 

That particular week in summary, then; One missing phone, two university colleges I probably won't get into and three good friends (all of them female) whom I have successfully pissed off…

That was almost a haiku…

It’s The End Of The World As We Know It… But Do I Feel Fine…?

So it's that time of the year again, folks – we've just started 2010, the calendars are waiting on tenterhooks for us to flip them over into March, another Valentine's day of beer, sweat and loneliness has passed and the wacky nutjobs out there have started raving about the apocalypse that is deigned to wipe the human race off the face of the earth in two years' time.

Let me be one of the multitudes of the common-sensical out there to call bull on this one, people. Sure, the Aztecs, Mayans, Olmecs and Toltecs predicted this happening, as did Nostradamus. But I can guarantee that it's all cock and bull. The apocalypse is NOT going to happen in 2012. Britain will NOT win more than ten gold medals. Have no fear – the Status Quo will be retained. A good job too – we don't want to lose all the good British bands to foreign bigwig monetarianists.

In all seriousness, though dear reader – you will know by now that I am a huge fan of history. Love it. Thus, I took the time and bothered to research the topic in question. (A bit like homework, only less dull.) I think we can safely say that, despite Nostradamus' accuracy with his previous predictions (such as World War Two), we can see he has also made a few mistakes. Now I'm hardly going to sit here and pretend that people who make mistakes are to be immediately mistrusted. I make mistakes all the time, yet I do sometimes, on the odd occasion, come up with a little nugget of interesting and useful information. Einstein himself frequently made mistakes – especially in the fashion department. My reasoning against Nostradamus is twofold; the last time he predicted the end of the world would occur was within the 18^th Century. Now unless he predicted the beginning of the end, I personally am of the opinion that there was no calamitous explosion of the planet in 1756, nor a gigantic meteorite colliding with the earth in 1776. Admittedly, I would be the first person to agree that simply because he made a mistake does not mean we should dismiss his information. However – it does mean we should take his advice with a pinch of salt. Better to have the end-times come when we aren't expecting, spend (at most) a week hiding out in a basement whilst the zombie hordes ravish your friends, family, hometown and local wildlife population than it is to know the end is nigh within two years. Sure, in the latter event you can live life to the full – enjoy yourself and do everything you wanted to; but if you're blissfully unaware of your fate, you don't have a great cloud of despair looming overhead 24/7. To slightly miss-quote one of my favorite films, Gladiator; "We cannot choose our fate. But we can choose how we meet that end."

The problem with knowing that certain doom is just around the corner is the time frame involved. With this particular prediction of total death and destruction, we've got two years to sort out our affairs before the earth is consumed in a huge ball of fire…or something. The question remains, however, as to exactly what one does when one discovers that there are two years to go. Sure, people claim they may do everything they ever wanted to, but never got around to; skydiving, skiing, learning to play chess whilst reading Dan Brown at the same time… whatever… The only problem with this is that with an entire two years ahead, one cannot simply quit one's job and spend the rest of the period having fantastic adventures in all corners of the globe. Firstly, most people do not, in fact, have enough disposable income to support two year's worth of wacky adventures for a full family of four and Kevin the family dachshund. If you left your current occupation and began spending all your remaining money on adventure holidays – how long would it last? Not a great amount of time, I'd bet… I realized this whilst mounting the steps of the aeroplane I'm currently sitting on. I stood behind two affluent-looking Dutch businessmen, and realised that if the apocalypse was nigh – then only high-flying businessmen and corporate types would be able to fund themselves in a changed lifestyle for two whole years. Average Joe public would have to live out two years of fear and dread whilst still keeping their jobs... The second problem with the "do what you want" plan is that most people will attempt to live such a life. Adventure holidays are exciting because they're unique and different. If everyone started hang-gliding to work, for example, it would soon get boring and the man who drove there in his Triumph Dolomite would be the one getting all the attention. Individualism has a flip side, people... Triumph Dolomite Man will have his day...

My thoughts on the exact nature of the events that are pre-destined to unfold are a little confused. Are we to take it that the world itself will end in 2012? The earth itself will disappear down a black hole, or implode in a dramatic display of natural fireworks? Or are we supposed to be of the understanding that mankind as a species will be wiped out – possibly by the sister/brother/son/cousin meteor of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs...? If the latter, then all the better as life will almost certainly continue. If not, and the entire world is destroyed in a mildly hilarious yet also poignant scenario of uber-death, then bugger...

 

All this speculation about death brings me on to a personal pet hatred of mine; Self-harming teenagers. Apparently, scientific analysis produced by the MAT (Ministry for Angsty Teenagers) shows that there is a large rise in the number of British teens who fancy putting on far too much eyeliner and slitting their wrists with rusty razorblades... Emo culture itself is something I just don't get. I understand it and know how it works; I just don't `get` it. Emo boy gets depressed, writes a crap song about it to "express his emotion". Emo girl hears the song, hitches up with emo boy. After two months emo girl dumps emo boy. Emo boy becomes severely depressed, writes another crap song then slits his wrists with a razor he found in the gutter... And these people think they're being cool and modern? Sickening, methinks... (Don't take too much issue with my views on the music these people like and enjoy; that's an issue for another time.)

I just don't see why self-harm is supposed to be able to alleviate distress or sorrow. If you're angry about something, the traditional course of action is to take it out on someone else/the family pets/nearby inanimate objects, not one's own body. It may, of course, be one large shout out for attention. (Subconsciously, I mean – most people don't walk around under the mindset that causing themselves severe bodily harm will get them the attention they believe they deserve.)

I understand that many out there will be thinking; "Generalising as usual are you, Cronshaw? *Turns off internet browser then goes to do something mildly more entertaining. Watching paint dry or grass grow are two fine examples*" But do hold for a minute. (Presuming you can read the next section within one minute. If not, please hold for a little longer.) I'm not in the habit of making gross generalisations. Perhaps I should have phrased what I said above slightly differently but in all honesty I cannot actually think of another way to put it that comes out better. I do NOT believe that all "emo"s are wrist-slashing, makeup-wearing, manic depressives. Those behaviours I discuss here refer solely to the individuals involved. If you want an idea of exactly the sort of figure I'm referring to; check my Facebook links. There's a picture of some sort of weird emo boy...creature...wearing far too much makeup, studs and with ridiculously blackened hair. You may get the idea just by reading that last sentence, in fact.

Irritatingly, however, that picture comes with the attached slogan of; "EMO – The reason we should just give the fucking razorblades away..." here is where I would disagree. Give them a fucking stress ball instead! Give them something that everybody hates else to ram sharp, pointy objects into instead of their own arms and wrists; a much better solution all round. Emos stop slitting their wrists, there's far less teenage death around and Nick Griffin gets to tour the country visiting our "diseased teens".

 

Once again, it's taken me around five hundred words to reach a conclusion where fifty would do; but at least I managed to explain my gross generalisation...sort of...well, not really. But you understand my meaning.

Anyway, have a good night, enjoy the rest of your evening, and as per usual the five minutes of your life you wasted reading this cannot be refunded. We've talked about this, so stop sending in letters...

Ski Sunday

Bounce...Bounce...Bounce...Whoomph! A snowdrift in the face...

As you have probably surmised from those two short sentences, I am in fact currently skiing. Or at least, on a skiing holiday. This year, Norway has to suffer the joint presence of myself and my father for an agonisingly long week; at least it is for them – we'll be spending a happy seven days bombing down ski slopes at ludicrous speeds and pissing off the locals at ridiculously loud volumes. We (and by we I mean Dad) shall also be performing the duty of tutoring the latest set of friends we have brought with us on this particular trip – the Platts.

Or at least, we would if Dad hadn't put himself out of action. I take you back to the first day. Envisage a thin mountain-side slope; plenty of trees coat the edges of a thin, pisted run that curves rather nicely around the edge of the hill. On this particular venture we happen to be curving to our right. Dad is leading the way, blazing the trail, and disappears around the corner. This we consider perfectly normal, due to the fact that he happens to be the only member of our particular expeditionary force who has a piste map. There is a slight feeling of disconcertion, however, when we turn the corner to find him on his back, struggling to right himself.

After much grunting, groaning and picking up of lost limbs, it transpires that Dad had turned in surprise when the lift we had expected to be open was, in fact, closed. As humorous as this may sound at first glance, dear reader, let me assure you it is not. Dad has now been out of action for the past two days and is showing no sign of swift, overnight recovery. On the plus side, however, I do get to use his skis for the duration. `Head Monsters`... Very nice...

The snow here in Voss is not that bad – it's not great, either, but it's not bad. Just trust me when I tell you that I'd have second thoughts about throwing myself facially first off a cliff – something I wouldn't usually do. Though in most places, there's usually enough to at least break my fall if not to land on...

Due to limited free time off the slopes and out of the hot tub, I've been forced to write this over a period of several days. At current time of writing, we are now two days after the great ankle-injury incident. This means we are now at a stage where Dad feels that most of his limbs are, in fact, operable and has thus agreed to accompany me to the ski shop to try out some skis. (I'll be the one trying them out, not him – he already has skis). Hopefully this in turn means at least one of several things; we can cut down on ski hire costs whenever we take a ski holiday, I'll have a pair of darn good skis to strap to my feet and whiz down a slope of ice on and thirdly I'll be using skis that I chose and like. Much better than the MDF horror stories they sometimes force you to wear in these places...

So, the week in summary; Dad has successfully injure his ankle in a partially hilarious yet hugely painful manner, the snow is swiftly fading from the hillside, I met a rather nice Scottish girl called Kirsty in the hotel and I have trialled three pairs of skis that may be worth purchasing upon my return to Blighty.

These particular skis (Stockli Stormriders) are possibly the best skis I've ever used in my entire life – and that's up against some pretty stiff competition, to be fair. They also have the charming image of a dead goat's skull as the motif on the blade itself, so I thought they might be nice little attention-grabbers.

Stockli, as those ski-buffs amongst you may know, is one of those companies who makes products with an air of professional superiority – though in reality the only difference between them and normal manufacturers is twofold; One, they take slightly more care in the production of their...products, and Two, they are at liberty to attach a price-tag with enough digits to take you to the moon and back. However, with any luck and several large dollops of patience I will be able to find a pair of these godly articles within the sales back in the UK (probably second-hand, but hey...). So far, the best price I've managed to find for just the skis (without bindings) is equal to the top of Dad's allowed budget for skis WITH bindings... Bugger...

I think my message to finish off on this time is thus:

Anybody got 1,500 dollars I could borrow...?

I'll pay you back within the next twenty-five years....

Imaginationland

It seems I may have been committing a Richard Dawkins lately – starting off well, yet getting buoyed up by popular opinion and going totally off the rails. If that is the case, my sincere apologies come to you tightly secured within some bright red Marks and Spencer gift-wrap. Blue is also available for those amongst you with more discerning fashion tastes. I might be able to stretch to spots, but stripes are definitely out of the question. Again, the gist of this is; “I apologise.”

Spending time thinking is a wonderful activity. A fine use of one’s time. Something I would highly recommend. Scientific study proves that when one sits down / walks around, spending time thinking, that imagination plays a direct part in one’s thought patterns. You may begin by remembering something that particularly irritated you, or that you did particularly badly at, or even something totally out of your control yet it upsets you all the same.

After spending some time reviewing the incident, but before you come up with a plausible solution to the problem, one usually finds oneself imagining what life would be like if you had said “X” differently, or hadn’t done “X” at a particular time, or if the rhinoceros hadn’t escaped from the local zoo and ploughed through everything in it’s path - you being within the path at the time.

You’ll find yourself feeling completely different. Everything suddenly seems different. Part of this is due to a natural human reaction – wishing that everyone else thinks the same way that you do. Often some reconciliation time taken after an emotional event will result in one imagining how the situation will have gone differently if the other party had thought the way you had done.

As an inexperienced entity in the great, swirling, and ever-changing mystery that is love - which I am led to believe is a huge maelstrom of hope, resentment and disappointment, like a long search for a lost or hidden object that one will never reach, but may sometimes catch a scent or taste of, I am not disposed to comment.

Suffice to say that in the great mountain-full of ski slopes that is life, love appears to be the double-black diamond for us all. I do not find the idea of an endless search for an unreachable goal appealing, though I am sure that, given time, the net will have ensnared me.

Yes, I did just Wikipedia all of that. What? For a minute there you thought I had a soul, didn’t you?

It is obvious that one will have to be dragged out of one’s reverie after some time, so we must make the most of what we have. Top on my recommendation list is to obtain (if you haven’t got one already) or to keep on you at all times (if you do) an iPod or other MP3 player. Going for a long walk in the fresh air with music filling your head is a good way to help your thoughts drift, as your brain blocks off the part that concentrates on unexpected sound. So what to listen to? Preferably something with lyrics, that you know well and has an emotional / life-related basis. For me, most of the Eagles slow numbers, “It’s the End of the World” by R.E.M., “Carry on Wayward Son” by Kansas and (surprisingly) “Never Gonna Give you up” by Rick Astley are all good contenders. If you have some film soundtracks loaded onto your music player, I would not recommend anything too dramatic. Something nice and calm, preferably with choral, strings and/or wind instruments. “Gladiator” and “King Arthur”, both by Hans Zimmer, are two worthwhile investments.

I am not a man who can boast many talents, but bouncing back after a particularly distressing or emotional event is one that I can state with pride. It is possibly the main reason as to why I (subconsciously) approach critique with such a blasé attitude, and most insults merely bounce off. However, I assure you that this is not always a good thing – though that is a tale for another time.

Part of this may be down to the amount of time I spend listening to music, mellowing out in a pool of my collective thoughts and reviewing any mistakes made by others or myself that created a great impact.

I once said to an acquaintance of mine that I have little respect for self pity either expressed publicly or that has a prolonged duration. This is true to the extent that a little alone time is all that is needed to regain some composure. Sure, you won’t feel totally fine, but it really does help you feel a bit better. You can address the issues that relate back to you before going out to conquer the big, wide world of ‘Other People’s Mistakes”.

Plus it’s good for a spot of entertainment now and again, especially if you listen to “Surfin Bird” whilst someone shouts themselves blue at you.

Whose Line is it Anyway?

Learning lines for plays is hard. That is an absolute fact, and anyone who disagrees will be sent to hell for lying. Yes, I’ve been in contact with the almighty over the last week and we have reached the agreement that there shall be an eleventh commandment. “Thou shalt struggle to learn lines.”

I suspect that it’s not going to require you to display the detective skills of Sherlock Holmes to fathom what I’m on about here. Yes, there is a production of a theatrical nature about to ensue in our school. Or rather, we are about to perform one in a separate locale. In this case, the Merchant Adventurer’s Hall in York.

Yes, a fancy, big, wooden, historical building, and we’re going to be performing a fancy, big, wooden, historical play within.

We are performing a piece of mystery, intrigue, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, and the willingness to maintain international copyright laws. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the story of the “York Pageant”. Re-written by Alan Heaven and performed by the Lower Sixth Drama students of Pocklington School.

A round of applause if you will.

We were incredibly lucky in our organisation, actually, as there is a tremendous amount to do in incredibly dodgy imitation mediaeval language. I refer to our method of working through one script at a time. If we had been given the whole lot at once, we might just have been swamped. We only had a week to sort this out!

I’m not in a great position to write pure genius this week due to tiredness from work and pressure to learn these damned lines, I’m afraid. Still, nothing like running something fresh through the cappuccino maker of innovation, to see if it comes out frothy.

Yet this is one role in which I am perfectly comfortable. Spouting a load of mediaeval-shpiel, shouting one hell of a lot, and no serious level of interaction with women. That may sound sexist, but I assure you I have my reasons. It’s not that I don’t like women, far from it. It’s merely that I am not good at acting opposite them. You see, when it comes to sexual interfacing with the female gender group, I've always been caution-orientated due to ongoing problems of an adaptive nature regarding the gooiness factor on the physical front.

However, I make it sound like one of those situations that although there has been hard work involved, it’s going perfectly smoothly now. That is not so. We have issues with the tech department, the line-learning department and the rehearsal department.

Still, problems are just the pregnant mothers of solutions – in this case meaning that we should not attempt to fix the problem of, say, the tech, by running over it in a bull-dozer fashion. We must work with what we have and adapt.

After all, if an actor cannot adapt, what good is he? Or she?

Actually, have we removed the political-correct view of actor as opposed to actress?

I’m not sure.

Homework this week is to find out.

On my desk first thing Monday morning.

Speaking in English...

I'm afraid to say that once again I've committed the despicable act of merely copying and pasting something I've either started perviously or wrote for an entirely different purpose.
You'll be surprised, however, that this one actually came to something.

Our English teacher asked us to compose a two-and-a-half minute talk on a topic that she handed out to us. Apparently it was intended to fit with our own personalities and what appeals to us the most.
True to form, I got the following;

"To guarantee either food source in response to climate change, or high profile protection against terrorism, the UK aggress to become the 53rd state of America. How might this desire for fundamental provision (for the good of many) impact on you and your aspirations?"

Remember to read this in "speech form", as I actually had to say this out loud... Enjoy;

To guarantee either food source in response to climate change, or high profile protection against terrorism, the UK aggress to become the 53rd state of America. How might this desire for fundamental provision (for the good of many) impact on you and your aspirations?

I’ll begin by throwing in a few key words I might use if this situation ever came about; Heinous, Scandalous, Ridiculous, Tactless, Supercalifragalisticexpialodotious.

America is a country that we have no quarrel with, and now they want to turn us into one of their states.
This would be a bit like us invading Scotland and calling it the county of “Really North Yorkshire”. To sum up our background section for today, I’ll just remind you of one fact; Which language is the official language of America? French? Spanish?
No, they speak a rudimentary form of English.
Becoming the 53rd state of the USA would be rather ironic seeing as we actually gave them the country in the first place!
Britain has a great history that we should not be so eager to dismiss. We’ve beaten the French, the Scots, the Irish, the Welsh, the French, the Germans, the Spanish, the French, the Arabs, the Japanese, the French, the Norwegians, the Danes, and even the French!
We invented the basis for the modern calendar, our language is the most widely used throughout the world, and we spawned the greatness that is Dire Straits.
If we were absorbed into America we’d find cricket replaced with baseball, and worst of all, Earl Grey tea replaced with root beer!

By now, those of you that are listening will be able to tell that how this will affect me personally is the damage it will cause to my patriotic ego, and for those of you that aren’t listening; OI! *Clap Clap* Pay attention!
You see, I have a weird love of anything British, and accepting an American rulership and government would just be wrong.

Joining the Americans would probably not yield any food benefits to us, either. The UK is a net importer of food and so is the USA. If food supplies diminished through changing agriculture patterns brought about by climate change, our situation would not necessarily improve by becoming an American state. Arguably it could be worse as we could endanger important trade links with Europe and the Commonwealth. We’d have to wave goodbye to delicious, succulent lamb all the way from New Zealand. Therefore, even in the situation of climate change and Britain becoming state number 53, it’s unlikely that we’d get much more help than we did before.
Think about it this way, too; What’s in it for the Americans? We can’t exactly offer them a staggering supply of natural resources… Why would they bother if we can’t offer anything in return?

I can’t argue a case for national security either. Whilst the United Kingdom is strategically placed for operations in Europe, the main terrorist threat emanates from further a field. The only possible advantage that the USA could gain from annexing Britain as a 53rd state is through placement of nuclear missiles on British soil, as they are not currently permitted to do so.

Britain is already in possession of a handful of Nuclear weapons. We get attacked by terrorists. The Americans have hundreds of the things. They get attacked by terrorists. Noticing a trend here? A nuclear deterrent works in principle against other nations with nuclear power and full standing armies, but the idea of a nuclear deterrent is less effective against the threat of terrorists, as they are so scattered across the globe. If a bomb was used against them, far more innocent civilians would be harmed than terrorists. Assuming we actually find them first, of course!

In a sense of any aspirations I may have, it probably has no effect. My chief objective in life is mostly to keep breathing. Besides that, it’s to get some decent A-levels, get a degree in Archaeology, do said Archaeology for the next forty years and then retire in peace and quiet. I don’t actually see how changing my nationality would affect that. The American link might open up the possibilities of some new universities to go to, but I’d rather stick with British ones. (Especially as a recent survey has shown that four of the top ten universities in the world reside in England!)


And that's it. I'll scribble something else this evening as well, so don't feel ignored, dear people!
I merely wanted to pop this one into the communal think-tank as soon as possible, to see if it floats or sinks...

So far I'm hoping for a float...

Novels and Nudges

During the last few weeks, it has become harder and harder to stick to my goal of writing a novel. This is not to say I have given up, as I am writing more and more each day, but merely that I am not exactly pushing the accelerator, especially as we appear to be in a twenty mile an hour limit at the moment.
Yes, that’s correct – we’re passing cautiously through that deadly area known as Schooltown, where dozens of kids get knocked over by the trucks of laziness, inattentiveness and difficulties. Worst of all is the sleeping policeman nicknamed Forgotten Homework, lurking just around the corner from the high street waiting to trip up innocent victims who took a wrong turn at Slack Off avenue…

Yes, it’s that time of the year again where we dust off our pens, pencils and brain cells in an attempt to start some actual work for school. What got me in the mood for a school complaint, you ask? Well, it’s simple Jimmy… (That’s probably not your name, but it will creep out all the Jimmies out there…).

It was me. No, that is still Ross you’re reading, I’ve not suddenly developed multiple personality disorder, nor is there someone else in the room with me. Unless you count the cat, of course, but I doubt that the feline linguistic skills of the average punter out there reading this are above par to the extent that they can go and read my cat’s blog instead.

My point was supposed to be that I could easily blame all of my life’s failures on myself. Nobody else is to blame, and I should probably go and take some life counselling skills… Still, which particular brand of “Cronny Fail” has prompted this topic?
It’s my continued ability to write, or in this case type, without actually thinking about the question first. My example for this evening is a thrilling tale of terror, love, romance and suspension, so gather round, children, to hear the story of “Ross’ English Homework II: The revenge of the killer cock-up.”

Opening the great tome of kiddie’s stories, I find this one in a state of neglect, in the pages right at the back covered in cobwebs and coffee mug rings, as well as slight spatterings of dried blood…
We begin whilst Ross is sitting at his computer, tip-tappity-typing away at the homework his English teacher thrust upon him. It was going well, it was going brilliantly, until he realised he had made one truly fatal error; he had forgotten to put the keys back into the keyboard after he cleaned it! Plus, what he had been attempting to type neither made sense nor answered the question he had been set…
Nightmare!!

Once you’ve all gathered up your smelling salts and recovered, you will notice that it’s not really a huge issue this time around. However, if I had reached the stage I was at under exam conditions, I’d be hard pressed to start again. My stupidity rolled me into a situation where I might ruin an entire piece of work if I’d not been careful!
It’s a lesson for all of us; not just think before you act, but make sure that while you act, you’re still working towards the objective originally set!

Talking of rolling, let’s examine another topic I’ve been having a few thoughts about recently (I know, I know, I shouldn’t strain too many of the little grey cells… Two topics in one week?!), and that’s nudges. Nudges in chat windows. I know it’s a good way of re-attracting attention if you suspect the other person is afk (Away From Keyboard… got all my gamer-spiel out of the way quickly…) but to be Frank, it’s quite as rude as simply pushing into someone because they’re not watching you.
To be Ross again, I can safely say that we need to be more careful about our methods we use to attract attention. Never forget the case of the little Austrian boy who was denied attention, and killed six million Jews to prove a point…

I just think it symbolises an act of rudeness whilst in the real world.
Let me just put this in your toaster to see what pops up; Would you tolerate me standing next to you, poking you between the ribs whilst you try and talk to someone? No, of course not, you’d probably just hit me.
Then, whilst my nose was bleeding profusely over your brand new Gucci loafers, you’d call for the police and sue for damages…

We’ve now moved out of Schooltown and are in the more relaxed village of Stereotype-on-Tyne. Here we’re allowed to increase our speed. However, with great speed comes great responsibility. The crashes are far more spectacular.
Yes, we have to be incredibly careful when we move through Stereotype-on-Tyne, especially when going down Racialjoke Boulevard. Usually I merely tend to stick to the other side and take a stroll down Jokesagainstpeopleiknowpersonally Road, as it produces less disastrous consequences, due to a less cluttered roadway.

So, yes, nudging in internet forums is rude. It’s also incredibly annoying. I can only think of one thing that would irritate me more if played in rapid succession.
If you haven’t guessed it by now, I’ll give you this clue; We were talking about rolling earlier, remember?

Now you’ve got it!

Enjoy;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHg5SJYRHA0

Workloads and Wikipedia

After having spent the last two days in a period of educatory capacities fluctuated by members of a teaching occupation (Also known as school), I’ve spent the last two evenings glued to a computer keyboard typing up some work for History. This year, we’ve had our shells split into two and our nuts roasted gently over the simmering heat of a double-barrelled topic. Our first crispy nut is the Cold War.

Veterans of GCSE History in our school will, by now, have the Cold War coming out of their ears. So if you are one of those people, and hello to you if you are, stuff Kruschev and Kennedy back into your lugs and pay attention. So, yes, the Cold War. It’s back. It’s back and it’s bigger than before. In fact, it’s back and it’s bigger, better and boringer than the previous model could ever match.
And we’re expected to remember the meanings of words such as “Potsdam” and “Yalta” and “Bomb”… To mis-quote the famous Hedges; We’re in a real gonads in the guillotine situation here!

Let me just walk something across your motorway to see if it gets run over here – are you one of those people who gets excited by all this modern history? If so, I wish you all a very happy life, but I must ask; “Why are you here?”
Surely any readers of this blog will have learned so far to ensure that they read everything I put down extremely carefully. That includes the description of myself. You will notice that I find any history that takes place after 1815 exceedingly dull.
Therefore you should prepare yourself fully for an entirely biased opinion that is based upon only half the facts. Business as usual, then.

Actually, there’s not going to be much of an argument. I merely thought I’d remind you all of my homicidal tendencies towards modern history buffs. No, what I’d really like to talk about is something a little more special. This leads us onto the second of our flame-grilled nuts, the Norman Conquest.
Hooray! An old topic! Something within my living memory!
I jest – but it is a relief to have a decent topic to study, at last. Even better, we’ve started off right back with the background firmly ingrained in that old favourite, Saxon England. Fantastic! An opportunity to show off my sorely under-used knowledge of the period…

Let me just put this into perspective for those who aren’t in the know, so that those who aren’t in the know are in the know and those that are in the know now know that those who weren’t in the know are now in the know… now…
In the last five years of education, this will be the only time I will be studying anything pre-1910. I’ll just pause for a moment to let that sink in. And to allow those who’ve just started hyperventilating to recover.

Better? No longer feeling faint? Good.
My point is thus, and simple, and also simply thus; It’s obvious that we need much more of pupil selected topics. I’ve willingly spent my entire evening writing answers to some History questions, yet I doubt I would have done that for many other topics without having to seriously force myself. It would have required a level of willpower that I definitely do not posses. There we are – give us more pupil selected topics, and we’ll give you good results. Hear that, ministers for education?
(I hesitate to name one as by the time I’ve found out his name, it’ll have changed to someone else…)

I shall now move swiftly on, and upturn the second bag of knowledge nuts upon the roasting fire of revelation. Amongst the snap and crackle of burning twigs and coal, I detect a hint of something coming… I detect the letter W… Ah, yes – Wikipedia.

Now this may come as a shock to many of you, (Get your pillows and cushions at the ready) but I actually trust Wikipedia and would label it as a credible sauce, especially on nuts…
In all seriousness, this whole clamour about anyone being able to change Wikipedia at any moment they wish is completely overrated. Like the film Inglourious Basterds… Wish I could go see it, but the damned film companies decided it was worthy of an “18”.
But really, people, let’s take a moment to think about this. Any time facts are altered on Wikipedia, they get notifications. They know you’ve changed it. It’s the Big Brother of the internet. And you know what? They’ll change it back if it’s wrong, as well!

This is only a short argument, but I really want to get across that while Wikipedia is only ever good for the basic information and rudimentary factage, it’s more often than not true. Sure, it’s changeable, but the amount of time incorrect facts are displayed is miniscule. Tiny. Almost as small as the population of Vatican City, the size of a microbe, or the size of the BNP’s majority…
In other words, it’s tiny!

I think we should all use Wikipedia a bit more, actually. Go on – give it a chance! What harm can it do? I mean, if you just use it for the basic facts, and make sure you do a spot of cross-referencing with other sources to the extent that your internet navigations start to look like a satellite map of Baghdad.

Now it’s that time where all the children have visited the nut stall to buy our hot-roasted nuts, and we’re shutting up shop.
In tribute to that grand master of classic kiss-offs, the late mister Humphrey Littleton;
As the twin buttocks of time struggle onto the photocopier of eternity, and the tipsy secretary of fate wards off the managing director of destiny, I notice it’s time for me to stop.
I’ve said all I can. Heed my words, and you’ll do fine. So from myself and the team here at 15 Strother Close, Pocklington it’s “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night!”

Don't you wish your girlfriend was posh like me?

I think to start Semptember in style, it’s that good ol’ time of the month where I set a few facts straight.

I do not like Eagles and only Eagles. I also like bands such as ZZ Top, Dire Straits, Deep Purple and anything Eric Clapton graced with his presence. Why am I regaling you with tales of my favourite bands? Simple – to once again attempt to remove the mist of stereotypes with the air-conditioning fan of truth…

Would you call any of these bands ‘posh’? No, of course not…

I know that by today’s standards that they aren’t exactly the coolest of the cool anymore, but that doesn’t make them posh.

Where is this going, I hear you ask?

Well, I’m glad you did ask me that. I recently read in a magazine whose details are remaining confidential due to viewer discretion laws that a person’s personality can be determined by the type of music they listen to.

Therefore, as I don’t listen to posh bands, I cannot be posh, right?

Wrong. Of course we all know that’s just bollocks. Just because one person listens to a certain type of music does not immediately force them to become a member of that particular sect of society.

For example, if we ran a test like this; We kidnap a tramp and force him to listen to Beethoven, Schubert and Chopin for a few weeks, do you think that he’ll turn into English upper-class overnight? Of course not!

Still, I have no idea where this idea that I’m posh came from. I’m hardly a blue-blooded nobleman of the uppermost eschelon. There’s one good reason why, actually; I use French words and idioms from time to time. No true Englishman would let such abhorrences into his Windsor Palace. Wait, was that a joke against the royals?

Ah well, it’s about time Prince Phillip found some other house to go and be racist in…

But this doesn’t change the fact that most of my compatriots believe that a typical weekend for me would be spent sitting in my castle, surrounded by twenty types of vaguely posh animal, then before luncheon I’d shoot a servant and have sex with a wall… Or something like that…

Being serious for a minute (Gosh, can he keep it up for a whole minute? Probably not, but here goes…), it’s surely a fair point that I’m not really all that posh.

The only posh qualities I have are my accent and my penchant for Earl Grey tea, no milk and with a slice of lemon.

Though I don’t even know how the accent got there, especially seeing as both my parents are from working-class backgrounds. My father’s family comes from Sussex and my mother’s from Cheshire, whilst I was born in Yorkshire… What sort of accent SHOULD I have then?!

My point this evening is that we should all check exactly what we’re talking about before we put people into groups. God knows that I for one hate labelling people, but at least, say, medical labels have a thorough and researched background behind them.

It’s just a bit unfair to label someone as something before you’ve got all the facts.

And on that note, I say that from here on in any man who calls me posh is invited to duel with me at dusk. I choose swords.

En Garde!

Bring me some coffee sergeant-major, sergeant-major bring some coffee to me...

Now this may a first sound like the extreme of laziness, but please pay attention and all shall be revealed.

I originally began writing this one a few weeks ago whilst partaking in work experience. It never get beyond the second paragraph.

I therefore decided that I should finish it off, but kept the original opening as it only seems fair to my past self.

But then is that unfair to your present selves? A conundrum to be sure…

Time indeed plays with us all.

However, like time, we must move ever onwards. Enjoy;

Over the last couple of days, I’ve had very little to do. We spent Thursday travelling and got back at around 12.00 am.

So why no new writings? One word; Laziness

Having had around two hours sleep over a twenty four hour period I was suffering from chronic jetlag over the weekend, and not just the tired kind – oh no.

This was the kind of jetlag that creeps up on you when you least expect it, it allows you to act perfectly normally during the day, but causes you to feel sickeningly tired at night. You struggle to get up in the mornings, meaning breakfast must be brought to you in bed and you really shouldn’t try getting up before around 12.30.

(To all the men out there reading this, it can be pulled off with our old friend the scientific name, for example “Lazyarseitis”. Just make sure you pronounce it convincingly!)

I just thought I’d take my opportunity to explain my total lack of action recently. Still, not too much explanation needed, I fancy – worked in an office all week, brain got tired, flew home on a plane overnight, brain got more tired, slept for nearly half a day, brain gets much more relaxed. All I need now are the waxy lyrics of Stephen Fry gently massaging my eardrums with that o-so-soothing voice of his to put me totally at ease.

Sorted!

In fact, the only reason I put coffee in the title for this one is because I started scribbling the idea for this one down whilst sitting in a coffee shop this morning.

Out in York for my work experience, I had an hour to kill before I was needed, so I popped into the nearest Costa, or Starbucks or whatever to purchase myself a steaming beverage of caffeine and froth.

I ordered a large latte.

Now it’s often been a little thought of mine that the American coffee cup sizes vary somewhat to ours – their small being an equivalent to the UK XX Large, and our Large being an equivalent to their espresso cups, for example – so imagine how I thought there might have been a little bit of an American influence when I was served with what appeared to be a cereal bowl full of froth.

Now, I’m all in favour of a little morning pick-me-up but the amount of caffeine that resided within this, the great mother of all coffee cups, must have been enough to knock out an entire football team. Or Robert Downey Jr.

I probably only survived due to the increased layers of fat I had put on over a rather sluggish two weeks. A bit unorthodox, yet it may have saved my life no matter how unhealthy it may have been.

Still, when have I ever had the right to complain about health?

Actually, having said that I have recently taken up squash. Yes, each Sunday morning you can find me, without fail, being beaten embarrassingly by a woman three and a half times my age with a hip replacement. It’s true, my mother is quite the squash wiz.

Still, she has been playing for more years than I have lived, so I probably shouldn’t complain! (Even if the practice seems more difficult than a hundred military drill sessions under a particularly vindictive sergeant-major who woke up on decidedly the wrong side of bed every morning this week!)

Another point in my favour is the fact that, at the time of writing, I am only on my fourth session. Apparently I’m not doing too badly regarding my ‘incompetence’!

Yes, I know mum means ‘inexperience’ but you have to humour them, don’t you?

Don't take my sunshine when she's gone...

Having returned from having several weeks in sunny locations, I looked forlornly at the mountainous pile of “bugger all to do” sitting on my desk and felt the slight flutterings of happiness within me. Was it possible I was actually going to have a laid back holiday for once? Only a little work? Lots of free time? Yay!

Then I remembered I had to write this. Bugger. So, sitting at my desk, musing over what I could write, with a cup of earl grey steaming on the table in front of me, I commence.

So – if I had one week away in Bahrain, then a week’s rest, then a week away in Rome, why the delay? Well I think it’s time to be frank. I mean I WAS going to start off with several typically pathetic jokes masking a weak strain of excuses that barely constitutes an explanation as to why I haven’t written anything at all.

Seeing as I’m not one to change my mind when I go about it – it was the leprechauns. The short people are to blame. On second thoughts, might be the unicorns. Think of any fantasy creature and go chase it. Be it leprechaun, pixie, or purple dragon.

Hmmm… scrap that last one.

Still, it’s quite a disappointing realisation – that you just spent a week in a gorgeously sunny location just to have the glory of the sun ripped away upon your return to Blighty. Not that I’m complaining there. I consider British weather to be the only proper weather. Good spot of rain in the morning, followed by fog in the afternoon…

In fact, one cannot put it better than Asterix does;

“Do you often get fog like that?”

“Goodness, no, old chap! Only when it isn’t raining!”

Seems our weather has got to the stage where even the French have rights to joke about it..!

I’m reminded slightly of when one hears conversations along the lines of `worst chat up lines`. It’s always fun to read real-life examples, but I can’t help but think that the worst must surely be; “Enough about me. What about you?” as a shrewd conversation partner must surely notice this as a thinly masked version of; “I have nothing whatsoever interesting to say about myself. Please start talking so my faults are not revealed.”

You may have noticed by the incandescent and random nature of these ramblings that I have in fact gone clinically insane this week. Hark! Surely not! What could cause me, great king of keyboard, tyrant of typing and baron of blog to go round the bend?

Well, I decided it was my turn this week. Let the world rulers have some time off, I drew the short straw. In my temporary capacity as chief loon I actually got off my backside to do some real bloody work for a change and did a bit of help with the landscaping. I went around pulling up all the ivy in the back garden.

Not as crazy as it may sound, as the stuff was growing everywhere. To paraphrase Steven Fry; “My tickety has never been more boo!” (That’s “I’m fine!” for all you non upper-class twits out there.)

This afternoon I had the rather unique experience of drying (after a shower) using a towel I usually reserve for cleaning sax parts. So now I sit here dripping wet, cork grease lining my hair and rust beneath the fingernails, to end this post with a rather interesting idea about all these acronyms the youth use in txt sp4k and chatrooms.

You know the sort of thing; asking each other out, for example, “Xcus me can u giv me drctns 2 ya <3?”

I find such abuse of the Queen’s English rather distasteful, and so I shall sip my Earl Grey with dignity when I say;

“When people ask me `pls` because it is shorter than `please`, I reply `No` because it is shorter than `Yes`”

Writer's Block

One can very rarely be stuck for ideas. Seriously. I mean, what exactly does it mean to have no ideas? When I think of myself being stuck in the ol’ ideas department, I usually conjure up an image of myself sitting in an exam room, clock ticking away, me sitting at my desk with a blank paper in front of me.
I’m sure that I’m not the only one who’s had experience of being stuck for thoughts at times. Obviously not everybody will have been sitting in front of an exam paper for ages, struggling to think of something to write, but there are certainly other cases. Writers will have had…well…writer’s block, of course.
I often feel envious of those who are on the converse side – who never run out of ideas. Those who write political speeches, for example. I mean, where do they get them from? How do they always have a speech prepared for every occasion?
Well, Obama’s certainly no mystery – he’s got eight years of decent comedy material to work off!

So where did this idea come from?
I was sitting in the office this morning and had absolutely no idea of what to write. I was quite lucky that I’d worked ahead yesterday evening, actually, and written about Obama’s encounter with the fly then, else I wouldn’t have got away with writing utter tosh now without something decent having come before.
So, I posted Obama, couldn’t think of anything, and sat back to read Clive Cussler. This is one of his I thought I’d go in to with an open mind, as if I hadn’t read any of his books before.
Not a peasant idea. After page 34 I found it completely unreadable. Remember what I put about main characters suffering anything more deadly than an ingrown toenail? No?

And I quote; “an unstoppable hybrid of man and tank that waltzes through legions of baddies whilst suffering from barely more than an ingrowing toenail.”
And predictably on page 29; “Tombs had also suffered grievous wounds. A piece of shrapnel had lodged in one thigh and a bullet had gouged a crease in his left shoulder.”
Now you might not read the same books I read, and you probably don’t, but if this fellow Tombs finds such wounds disabling then he must be a bit of a wimp. I might be more inclined to be nicer to the character if the wounds sounded realistically incapacitating. A slight gash in his left shoulder? A small piece of metal in one thigh? Hardly life threatening… Before you all turn away thinking I have no idea what real-life injuries would do to a man, let me give you a real-life example. During the Crimean war, there is a famously recorded case of a British officer whose arm had to be removed. The man didn’t even wince during the surgery, and when the limb was gone he turned to the surgeon and shouted; “Oi! Bring that back! My wife’s wedding ring is on that hand!” QFT, people, QFT…

Where is this all going to, then?
If one gets stuck, it’s hardly the end of the world – just write a load of rubbish, link your points to the title at the end of the article, and hope for the best!
Trust me, I speak from experience…

Obama and The Fly

I’ve finally got around to sorting out a news story to talk about. This one concerns a figure of great importance – President Obama. (I sure don’t do anything by halves!)
In the news this week was a story about Obama concerning an interview he was taking. During the interview, a small fly was pestering him – buzzing around his head and being generally distracting. When the insect settled on his hand, Obama slowly moved his other mitt, then BAM! Swatted the fly into the middle of next week.
The interviewer praised his speed and made great reference to the dead fly.

I’ve noticed that there’s a lot of talk on the internet (my only source of news around here) about the topic, all of them commenting on Obama’s speed and skill at fly swatting. There’s even speculation that he is, in fact, a ninja. This is of course ridiculous. Only Japanese people can be ninjas.
Foreigners may become honorary ninjas, though, so maybe... just maybe… Wait, this has nothing to do with the story.

REWIND

…all of them commenting on Obama’s speed and skill at fly swatting.

RE-RECORD

What disturbed me most, however, was the reaction from a certain group. This group was the PETA. For those who don’t know the definition, (myself included), PETA are an animal rights group. Apparently animal rights activists were having a go at Obama for killing a fly.

I know! Ludicrous, eh? They launch an entire line of protests simply because he did once on television what millions of people do multiple times every day…
It just didn’t make sense to me… I mean, why not spend time and resources protesting against something that actually makes sense, let a lone being worth the effort?
Did they think that campaigning against Barrack “Fly-Killer” Obama, they would end world cruelty to flies?
Come on! I mean, little children capture and pull the wings off flies every day. There are little electric boxes inside Fish ‘n Chips shops that attract flies to them and then kill them. Hell, even nature’s against them – some plants are specially adapted to trap and drown flies so they can suck out their juices. With odds like that, flies must be very advanced creatures to be so populous!

This is where I normally put in a large ‘HOWEVER-themed counter-argument’ with an almost audible ‘clunk’, and true to form, here it is;

My Mum. No, seriously. Let’s all put our mature hats on for a moment and keep reading. Mum pointed out that this could well just be another incident of the press getting hold of the tail-end of a story, then pulling something unreasonable out of the air… It appears this may well be true.
Looking around on some internet sites, it seems that PETA only made comments when they were asked questions – they never began by making statements in the first place.

The press started asking questions, (it turns out that PETA said they should have dealt with the fly more humanely, but didn’t have a go at the president at all) and the press turned it into a story about just that.

Rest assured, the issue has now been resolved. A PETA copyright ‘bug-catcher’ has been sent to Obama’s office, and we can now be sure that Obama is certainly not going to be a pushover to foreign powers, he may be quite hard-line; I mean, we can’t exactly say that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, now can we?