Monday, 29 December 2008

A Heartbreaking Tale of Staggering Beauty

As much as I have protested throughout most of my semi-adult teenage life, I am coming much more consciously aware of a desire building in me to write fiction. As a younger man, I abhorred the act of writing fiction, partly due to a principle I had come to refer to as "Midnight Philanthropy". Now as much as this sounds like a strange pseudo electronic-soft rock ballad-type band, (And it was, for three days) I used it as a term for any teenage literature, and in turn, literature that teenagers would commonly associate with "Fantastic Writing". That is to say that many of these works of literary delight very frequently used over-indulgent descriptions. Many people find these metaphors very enjoyable to read, but I, as a twisted misanthrope, simply found them innocuous.

Well, no surprise there then...

An example of such a description is one of my own invention, and it bears mentioning that I vomited twice after writing it. Yeah, think about that motherfuckers.

The moon shone in the lake, the water rippling like the lake was being caressed by several tiny hands, so dainty that they could only embark on a small venture from the shores.

Ugh. You see?
Anyway, I felt as though writing these sorts of things were inherent in writing fiction, so I made a very drastic attempt to stray away from it, only to find that this was a HUGE MISTAKE when I started University. "SHIT," I had briefly considered, as I was told to write something for the next class. "Write what you know" was the advice given to me by a friend, whom I immediately stuck with an open palm, shouting "Don't be so impetuous, the maestro has to WORK!"

Things were bad, and they were going to get worse, fast. I cobbled together a humorous sketch thing about the president, and then a thing about gangsters, pieced together from parts of a horrifying nightmare, but it wasn't enough. Then I thought, "Write what you...know!" shortly followed by; "Luke, you're a genius" and then a fifth of whisky.

It was good advice. I knew being cynical, I had spent most of my teenage years with the perspective of a much older man, about the world being crap and such, and so I knew a lot about misanthropic texts. I perused the words of Bret Ellis, and took in everything about The Great Gatsby. It helped. I liked novels about disenfranchisement, about decay and grit. So I liked writing them. After all, I am a cynic.

Reading this makes me depressed.

That's all from that, the moral of the story is, go do something that was obviously a good idea to start with. "Midnight Philanthropy" is not the only term I had hashed up as a young man, and between rehearsals for the school productions, me and many friends in my secondary school education coined a couple of words that we still use in everyday talk...uh...everyday. Lets dive right in;

  • Rooney: A person who looks like a chav, acts like a chav, partakes in typical chav-like activities. May indeed be a chav.
    e.g. "careful, there's a Rooney coming in the store" or "That Rooney was mental!". Can also be used in the plural sense; "Look at that bunch of Rooneys." (cautionary note: NEVER look at a bunch of Rooneys)
  • Chough: A person who acts like they are better than everyone else, and takes a much higher stance on things, such as acting more intelligent, or making jokes at other peoples expense, whilst being much less informed and/or intelligent, yet still pursuing the notion that they are better than other people. Choughs tend to run in packs of about three of four, and will have groups of mixed sex. They may also have Demi-Choughs sticking close by, basking in their self serving and egotistical nature. Also, sometimes they can be total fucking douchebags.
There. Hope I've widened up your world just a little more, Friends and/or Colleagues.

Peace out Bitches.

Sunday, 7 December 2008

4am Miracle

Once again, I stand at the precipice of something, edging closer to the darkest depths of darkness. And depth...

Anyway, right now, I am continuing my complete transformation in a complete bat. By which I mean a nocturnal creature. Also I have large, leathery wings, and a tendency to sleep upside down, hanging from a rafter or pole, any strong support really. I stay up late out of guilt for lack of work, and at around 4am, I occasionally experience a phenomena that allows me to do a good bit of work that helps my self-esteem, much like the great Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and his Kubla Khan, or should I say "Kubla Khan, A Vision in a Dream: A fragment. Except I don't use opiates. That's right, I've read a poem, I'm pretty smart by and large. And in great shape, Ladies. Anyway, my dear friends, it seems that this miracle-giving time is upon us again. Also, Christmas.

I couldn't think of a smoother way to segway from writing to Christmas. As a time, my family has had a very mixed view over Christmas. As a son of divorced parents, it was always a very tenuous time of the year, but wherever I was, we always struggled through in some sort of food-induced coma, attempting to tap into the thin veins of cheer contained within the thick layers of grumpusness. (It's not really a word, I made it up)

This year however, I have been feeling incredibly tuned into the Christmas spirit. Not in a clairvoyant or privileged way, but in a "Charlie Brown Christmas" kind of way. That's right friends, I am Linus, and I bring with me the true meaning of Christmas.

Before we all leave for the holidays, a group of my friends and I have decided to have a meal together, with home-cooked food. This might not seem like an original sentiment, but it's a big deal because this is the first time that I have had a Christmas meal with anybody other than family. The majority of these friends met each other less than three months ago, and yet here we are, having a significant meal together as peers, neighbours, colleagues and friends. I do not believe that the true spirit of Christmas lies in presents, or money, or faith, but in a simple conglomeration of people, in a room, even if it's only for an hour or two.

Bringing people together, it's what Christmas is all about, and I'll be damned if people can't see that.

I'm gonna get back to writing now.

Merry Christmas, Friends and Colleagues.
Have a good one.

Saturday, 29 November 2008

Science Vs. Art

Lets make this rock. I like to describe myself as a "Writer". This, as many of you may have probably realised within two seconds, could seem like and incredibly bold statement, given that my writing stature has been severely diminished, because of my lack of posts for a week. However, I believe that my ability to write is somewhat migratory, like a group of sperm whales, which coincidentally are still to this day considered some of the greatest writers in history, producing such works as "Woooaaaaooooowwwwooowwwwwwwooaaaaww: In memorandum" and "Great Expectations" which was eventually adapted into a novel by Charles Dickens, containing now only a few sperm whales, as opposed to a whole cast of the majestic beasts, as humans found the concept of London under the sea inherently confusing. Also because Dickens stole it.

The position of a "Writer" does not grant me access to anything that any ordinary, boring human, could not access, except for beautiful women and pastures of leafy notes. It does not grant me any perspective either, except perhaps maybe sometimes the ability to perceive the ether. Its a strange skill, but I have mastered it. I cannot teach it. For this I am sorry.

This literary tangent that I graced the Internet was mainly the culmination of a desire, building in me, to make myself sound more intelligent than I am. Which is very, people. Very very.
But to swerve off the road of facts and into the by-road of journalistic integrity, I shall make some comment an analysis on some of the news that's been reported lately. So let's news:

Blueberries 'reverse memory loss'

There seems to be something inherently wrong in this sentence. something deeply and horribly wrong. We were all thinking it, Reverse Memory Loss?! How can that happen?! And the catalyst for this particular phenomena, Blueberries, are somewhat of a cheap commodity when compared to say, billion dollar scientific research to the solutions that have not yet succeeded with any particular regularity. As a student, I am familiar with money. Or rather, the lack of such. However, I can recall buying drinks more expensive than blueberries with the intention of causing exactly the opposite effect. However, the plus side to my scenario, is that I do not remember spending the money, so I don't feel sad about it the next day.

The foods, known as flavonoids, were historically believed to act as antioxidants in human bodies.

Hold on. Flavonoids? I've got it guys, Strawberries contain Deliciounoids. Is there any science to see here? Stop talking, there's science to do! Get the potato chunks and test tubes, because we're staying up tonight. I may be injecting a little too much vitriol. It's true that antioxidants are real, it's been proven. And plus, the Actimel ads. 'Nuff said.

Dr Jeremy Spencer, from the department of food biosciences at the university, said: "Scientists have known of the potential health benefits of diets rich in fresh fruits for a long time.

Thanks Spence.

"Our research provides scientific evidence to show that blueberries are good for you and supports the idea that a diet-based approach could potentially be used to increase memory capacity.

So fruit is good for you? Jesus, no wonder I'm constantly ill, and almost dead. I live off of pretzels and coke.

"We will be taking these findings to the next level by investigating the effects of diets rich in flavonoids on individuals suffering from cognitive impairment and possibly Alzheimer's disease."

Well good for you I say, its not often that a scientist will stand up to the world and say "I have a theory! Also, I need money." I hardly think the solution to something as deep and drastic to Alzheimer's is a foodstuff that has been flowing though the digestion systems of humans for a good while now.

Science is always a slightly bitter subject, given my horrendously terrible "Science Years," In which I thought that I was good at a subject I was in fact appalling in. However, I do enjoy scientific facts. Measuring the density of potato mass when soaked in different concentrations of sucrose solution, in order to measure the absorption and diffusion rate between different sorts of potato, however? Not floating my boat.

This is why I am a writer. Because as a writer I can make up ridiculous scenarios, and call it entertainment, without the baggage of proving it.

Ooh, Ya burnt!

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Just a quick snippet

The City of Winchester...

After around two months, I finally feel like I truly live here.

It feels great.

Further Delights

In keeping with the usual racket, this being the ineptitude of the majority of the student population, with allowance for certain exceptions (like the strange people that write books at the age of 17, about knight-river gods or some other dross), I have left an essay, due in at 3.30pm sharp tommorow, till today. Although I did dissapear off to Starbucks on sunday afternoon to write, and write I did, I still have another 500 words to complete, and my mind is in a mental funk.

I feel as thought the problem may be inherent in the room I live in at the moment, a simple all-purpose room with a sink and a space for shoes, that sort of thing. It feels as though the Chi is being blocked somewhere, or the wai is being clogging im my third chuckra of whatever the particular religion maintains, but this room remains a symbol of my free time, where I may do whatever, a base of operations. This would be true however, if I didn't have a crippling fear of the library. For some reason, the silence in a library makes me very uneasy. I feel as though people are judging the way I breathe or hold a book, and every time I look at someone, I'm afraid that they think im a drunk that is about to go mental. It's a very specific fear, that last one, but I've been told I have that look about me.

So what do I do? I can't work in two areas that are technically specifically designed for working. In all senses, it seems as though I'm buggered. AHA, good sirs, for you see, there is a particular brand of establishment that offers sugary and caffine based goods, and so, it would appear the day is saved. Ah, But I guess it closes at 5. Ah. And the time now is 11. Ah. Well, I suppose I'd better get back to it.


Tuesday, 18 November 2008

Trek Times

In the last post, the formatting got a little weird. I guess Uhura is only half the woman she used to be...get it? Half?

Ahhhhhh, yes! Classic Comedy.

Dear Diary...

I am perhaps a little late to this, but I will discuss it nevertheless, after a link!

I guess it can probably be discerned from the URL that this is a Star Trek conversation. Between me My father and I had always watched The Next Generation every day, after my school and his work. It was one of the only bonding experiences we had, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The thing is, whilst I liked the show, it was more the positive memory of spending time with my father. I was never a "Trekker" or whatever, so I wasn't entirely annoyed when BBC2 stopped showing the show, or even when they replaced it with disgusting cooking/foraging shows. But it wasn't until I began to write when I started learning about the various things contained within the franchise. It was always something I liked in small doses afterwards, simply because I did not want to become known as a Trekkie.

Now the trailer of the new movie has been released, and my geekdom that I have spent years burying deep inside me, the geekdom I have tried to destroy with alcohol and mockery of those who revel in the particular brand of fiction, has flared up. I can't help but feel a slight pang of giddy excitement, as my nine year old self sits in front of the TV, knees huddled close to his chest.

However, I have a strong feeling that this coming movie will not just excite the fans. I have an inkling that the style of the movie verges more into a mainstream and casual movie. Whilst it will not fare as well with the common public as much as say, Lord of the Rings, it may prove itself in closing a tiny bit of the gap that separates Star Trek from the public.

Anton Yelchin, Chris Pine, Simon Pegg, Karl Urban, John Cho and Zoe Saldana in Star Trek

Part of this new direction may be the director, J.J. Abrams, doing. Him not being a die hard fan, but a casual follower like myself and others like me might just be the saving grace the franchise needs. Who knows, perhaps, in the way that David Tennant introduced a new doctor that could be loved by the masses, the cast of this movie might earn the respect of those who looked down on the series.

I for one have made a deal with my father to see this movie together when it comes out, and he is happy to have the one experience he shared with his son revitalised and renewed. As I was saying my goodbyes over the phone, my father, referring to this ritual, uttered a single poignant phrase before hanging up.

"Luke, we started this together, Lets finish it together."

I couldn't have said it any better.

Monday, 17 November 2008

Monday Night Live

Today, Instead of the usual poignant discussions I present about hair styles, camping in fields, and Star Trek, I have decided to go into a more political direction, to see if I can match a classmate in up-to-date political discussions. The answer will be no. I am undoubtedly a different style of writer, and whilst this person is great at giving opinions about current events, I seem to be more of a laugh-and-smiles type person. I have always been this way. Its pretty much my default position, and that can't be helped, much to the chagrin of many of my peers. Using the BBC ticker at the top of my screen, which constantly rotates at an alarming speed, I have found a story that I could relate to on a personal note, so here we go, down the rabbit hole, uh...Dorothy.

There were only 90 children permanently excluded from school for bullying last year in England, according to figures released by the Conservatives.

Shadow Children's Secretary Michael Gove questioned why "just a handful" of permanent exclusions had been imposed.

There were 6,800 children who received temporary exclusions for bullying.

"The victims of bullying shouldn't have to put up with seeing their tormentors stroll back into the classroom after a few days away from school," he said.

The permanent exclusions for bullying - 80 in secondary and 10 in primary school - were fewer in number than the 2,700 permanent exclusions for disruptive behaviour, 210 for theft, 400 for drug or alcohol use, 140 for sexual misconduct, 980 for assaulting an adult and 1,350 for assaulting a pupil.

The number of permanent exclusions for bullying has fallen in recent years - down from 150 in 2003-04 and 130 in 2004-05. The number of temporary exclusions for bullying for these years were 6,750 and 7,680. - Source: BBC News Website, Education...

Now that's a lot of data to chew through, and I have no option to chew it like a tough piece of gristly steak if I am to truly ascertain what exactly is the issue. Undoubtedly bullying is a huge problem. Many, many children are bullied each year, and yet it still continues, like malaria. Although you can protect yourself, there will never truly be a cure.

As a boy, aged 12 or so, I was supposedly "Bullied". However, I never felt as though the acts that had transpired would qualify as such, as I was unwilling to make any form of complaint. That, as I had deduced, would simply anger these cretins more, and in turn cause them to make my life increasingly miserable. I genuinely subscribed to the "If I leave a problem, It will eventually go away" train of thought. This turned out to be a mistake, as whilst the problem did not increase, it became a staple of my early secondary education. Much like visiting the dentist or taking a test. It happened, I let it happen, and so it continued. My self esteem was destroyed, and I simply thought it would never end, so I didn't react. The monotony of mockery and persecution of a person clearly became unbearable to my collection of angry and abusive people, and so they left me alone. Like a desert storm, it was gone as quick as it came.

So what could I do, but observe the next generation, with curiosity and new found vigour? I started to learn more about the bullies behavior, and their migratory habits. This moment was crucial, as the moment in history where, shock and awe, bullying became a major issue. I assume before it was tolerated in schools, because the adults were simply too old and tired to deal with the immediate problem. Before this initiative, the problem solving technique they so lovingly pushed upon us, was to put the victim (me) and my bully (lets call him Trog) in a room together, and have us "talk out our differences". Now I'm not sure if the name Trog, or the fact that Trog looked like he had lived most of his life on the underside of a city bus were any indication, but Trog wasn't the most verbal of people. The entire time was spent with Trog alternating between verbal abuse and small amounts of physical pain, the kind you get when you hit someone with a ruler. Say what you want about Trog, but he had time management skills.

The new method was more of a targeting aid than a preventative measure, with the famous blue pieces of plastic endorsed by celebrities being all the rage as a form of silent protest, as though one day all the victims would line up in a row, their fists raised, their eyes unblinking, as the bully could do nothing but utter "There, but for the grace of God" and flee into the hills. Remember these?

Yes Bono, I'm sure that you were bullied, in between banging groupies and making a fuck ton of money. Now crawl back to your cavern, you ignorant tool.

The bands were a part of a radical movement to stop the bullies. I myself thought about aligning myself with this charity, as a show of support for my brethren who had been attacked after me. But then I thought about it in the same way I would think about tying soap to my feet and trying to slide across a bed of nails, it just wasn't going to work, and it would end with pain.

Ive been slightly out of the loop when it comes to the "Great Bullying Plague" but then again, Its been almost 5 years since I was bullied, and I have been quite occupied with growing a pair and learning how to make jokes to get myself out of sticky situations, so I haven't really cared that much. It happened to me and I forgot it.

The solution to bullying does lie in excluding the bastards. When someone leads what I can only refer to as a campaign against you, the last thing you want is a teacher, or some other adult, telling you its "because they're jealous" or that "they want to be friends and they don't know how." If they don't know how to distinguish a handshake from fast moving closed fist, then not having friends is the least of their problems, and no amount of teaching is going to sway them into the paths of academia, so the best thing for them is to be expelled.

The sort of people who bully are vindictive and wry. I say this in the sense that, they know how to work the system. They know that the road to a life without school is to be a complete jerk. They know how to get exactly what they want in life, which is easy street, and they know that they will get it. All I am suggesting is that they should get there as soon as possible, because perhaps then their innocent peers don't have to be abused in the process.

This got incredibly serious, so I think I'm going to end with a classic icebreaker joke.

"A man with a duck on his head walks into a doctors office. The doctor says, 'what can I do or you?', and the duck says 'Doc, can you get this guy off my ass?"

Classic comedy. Tell your friends.

Sunday, 16 November 2008

Something Reading this way Comes

This week in Luke…that sounds strange, let’s try another one. This Sunday, I will discuss…That’s pretentious. Balls to it, I’m just going to jump right in.

I, like many other participants of the food basket of England, attended the holy sanctum of current auditory delights, the Western Woodstock, the Musical Mire; Reading Festival. This was my first attendance to a festival of any kind, unless you consider the Bristol Comic Convention a festival. Which I do not. On any account. And if you disagree, you are no doubt a fucking nerd.

Anyway, as it was the first time I had been graced with the pleasure of camping in a surrounding of filth, I naturally had to keep my un-judging eyes open, for any and all things I could grab, and pin down with tiny strings, in a sort of giant Gulliver of delights, to remember forever and ever. And thankfully, in this conglomeration of the great unwashed, I found many things that I enjoyed greatly, so thankfully my collection of tiny harpoons and rope did not go unused. A list of major things has often been used in English culture to display how fantastic and brilliant things are. Pro’s and Con’s are an American phenomena, and because I like American television better right now, I shall use the Yankee method of listing things. Here we go people, strap in tight.


  1. People. Many of the participants of this unholy union between man and sound seem friendly. They smile and wave, and occasionally, request if you would simply like a free hug. Although the last point was displeasing to me in its entirety, having never really felt the desire to wrap my arms around a filthy semi-naked man, I felt as though it was nice to have the option. In the same way that it is nice to have the option of squid offered to me at a restaurant, even though I will never eat it. Even the drug dealers are friendly. They chat with the patrons of the many bars, and even chat nicely with people terrified of their grizzled, unshaven complexion, such as myself. Even though it is hard to talk to a man who seems to be eight different shades of green, and has a distinct musk of vomit and alcohol on his mottled and stained hemp fleece, his voice is soothing and smooth, and allows me to overcome the intense desire to run away. When a person stamps on your head when you are knocked down, or spills his two star curry over your shirt, he or she will apologise with gusto, offering you rewards for not getting angry. This leads me nicely onto…

  1. Food. Never in my life have I tasted such food. It is strange to experience. Your body can tell the food is substandard. You can tell there are parasites embedded in the very material used to package the falafel wrap. And you can see that the man serving you is not clean, you wouldn’t expect him to be. He has been working in a filthy shack surrounded by mud and disease. But you simply have no other choice. And you wouldn’t want another choice, because the majority of the food, apart from the burger that is clearly a by-product of crude oil, is delicious. The only downside is the price. It is hard to explain in any other way than this: Investment. And money will not grow from it, but other things. For it is made from bio-culture.

  1. Music. This is really a no-brainer, so let’s make it into a brainer. Music is a collection of “sounds”, formed into a distinctive and planned melody. Sound is a form of energy that moves through air, water, and other matter, in waves of pressure. Sound is the means of auditory communication, including frog calls, bird songs and spoken language. Although the ear is the vertebrate sense organ that recognizes sound, it is the brain and central nervous system that "hears". Sound waves are perceived by the brain through the firing of nerve cells in the auditory portion of the central nervous system. The ear changes sound pressure waves from the outside world into a signal of nerve impulses sent to the brain. But no one wants to hear about that. The music is good. I went to Reading; all excited about hearing one or two bands play. But my main reason for going there was to expand my musical culture. And I did, mission successful, but in a very different way to the plan I had. My plan was to see the mainstream, and figure out which ones I liked. However, my time was mainly spent inside the “Punk” tent. This area is usually filled with people who are begging to attack something, anything, to prove that they are more of a primal human being than the person next to them. I remained unperturbed. I focused my attention on the music, and now I have an increased musical knowledge. It was a good day for me and all of my unborn larvae.

  1. Drugs and Alcohol (which is another type of drug). This is a sticky subject, and must be approached with caution. The fact that I was eighteen was certainly a blessing, because from what I could see, whilst many, many, many, drugs were readily available, with chants of “Drugs for sale” floating around the festival like migratory birds, alcohol was not so accessible. It seems ridiculous that at an event known for reckless, but thoroughly entertaining, hedonism, that one could have trouble finding even a snifter of the worst backwater-piss cider anywhere, but this was a very big problem with members of my friendship group. And being offered sips of a “bag of wine” from a person mildly resembling a fairy-tale troll, I could only wrinkle my nose in disgust and back away slowly. There are very few lines I will not cross, but I remain vigilant in my attempts not to cross them. This whole paragraph may seem like a Con, but the fact is, I have been complaining about the lack of alcohol. When you can find the noxious stuff, and drink it with gusto, it is incredible, and you are incredible for doing it.


  1. Filth. I need only tell one story regarding this subject, and I will have explained my point. Toilets are good. They stop us from shitting in the woods, or in small patches of high grass, like disgusting animals. However, this concept is only vague in the minds of the Reading Festival organisers, like a waif, flitting around in a haze of smoke. The product of these fevered minds is simply a skip. With around 10 to 15 cubicles thrown on the top. People would go into these shacks, wearing little more than underwear and “flip-flops”. And yet, the ironic thing is that the human beings cleaning the cess pool were wearing what I can only describe as Haz-Mat suits. It was incredible.

  1. Wasps. Fucking wasps. Think they can do whatever the fuck they want. Coat your tent with some insect repellent, or spray the little fuckers with it, and then they’ll see what’s what. Assholes.

  1. People. Now whilst this was a pro, there are also those who have this undeniable urge to destroy everything you once held dear, whilst terrifying you beyond your imagination. Being pelted with mud clots, I can take that, I went to comprehensive school, and I lived in Somerset, it was practically a pastime. But imagine, towards the hours of the early morning, taking a stroll over the vast grounds that encompass the Reading Festival, and hearing the sound of drums. You look around, perhaps it is in your head, or perhaps it is something darker. Then imagine turning round the corner to see the shattered wreck of a toilet. Not only this, but a deep and roaring flame bursting forth from it, twisting and turning, in a way that could only be described as possessed. And atop this mighty throne of twisted metal and flame, many young men and women, with tattered clothes, shout, almost musically. They hit the remains of this toilet, with other pieces of the toilet, ripped with their bare hands, in such a way that can only be described as warlike. The noxious fumes rise, and the sky turns a sickening purple, as if God himself is rolling in pain and anguish at what he has wrought.

All things considered, Reading was pretty great. I would go again, and so should you. I mean, for the first time. Unless you have been, in which case it’s again. It is sad to end this piece so abruptly, but I’m going to. So there.

Friday, 14 November 2008

Hair Matters

edit: This post starts on a personal and cosmetic note, and then it verges into something completely different. For this I am truly sorry.

The top of my head has always been a problem to me. More specifically, the things growing on it. It sounds gross, but you all have it, and you're going to have to live with it. It's called hair, and it's changing the world.

My hair has always been a problem to me. Whether I am attempting to stay warm, or look cool (ahahaha, pun right guys? It's funny right? Right?!) its never really looked out for me. I have no idea why, and I never have, but for some reason its just not a good part of my body. Its like a mattress if its left to grow, and like a scrubber brush if cut, and there seems to be no middle ground. Also, the colour is a distasteful shade of brown, and it seems to be unnaturally thick, of which both traits have been inherited from my father's side of the family. Perhaps it is my destiny to go old and grey, sitting at a desk with my in and out tray feeling constant flow, but maybe one day, I will say "No more!" and get my hair cut a proper way. We can but see. And this is an incredibly short post, which, in all honesty, is frankly unacceptable. So I will continue with a passage from Fyodor Dostoyevsky's novel; The House of The Dead:

'Stop snivelling, you've spilt you're vodka!'

Wow! Powerful stuff right?! You can just see all the emotion and culture flooding out of every letter and description! The book practically oozes the typical Dostoyevsky charm. That is to say, charm involving prison people. Prison people who are all wacky and distinctly Russian. I am not complaining, this is a good thing, but one might read this immediately after reading Crime and Punishment and think 'Hold on a minute!'

That is really all, until they look up the beloved author on Wikipedia, and find out that a bunch of his stuff doesn't take place within the gritty pre-communism Russia legal system. Wacky, huh?!
I love his books. And I'm not saying that to look smart, because to be quite honest, wading through it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It tested my concentration and my ability to cope with long stretches of musings of old-lady murder. But I feel stronger from it.

Oh...Crap, I forgot Notes from the Underground.

My bad guys!

Wednesday, 12 November 2008

Cinema means Cinebucks

I finally just finished watching a movie that I have been wanting to watch for a year now, and I shall explain to you why this transgression is so severe. My hometown, Yeovil (also known as Yeo-Vale, Yobville, Chav capital of the South-West, and briefly, YhauVaille) has a large cinema, something called a Cine-world, which I am led to believe is a term that describes its vast, worldly opportunities that are within, provided you are seeking opportunities of a "Cinefilm" nature.

Despite this glorious title, they have the tendency to cater to an audience that seems to, the less intelligent things in life. That is to say that the Movie Movie franchise (those godawful parodies), and the regular bouts of gornography, are shown for months, due to the fact that the audience laps all of them up with eager tongues. That sounds a little weird. Anyway, all of the great films that are not at all intellectual, god forbid, but have a certain something that makes them better than the dirge that is churned out every month, and yet they do not remain on the screens for a very long time.

For example, the film 3:10 to Yuma, an overall great movie, with great writing, and engrossing actors, was in the cinema for a total of three fucking days. Now I'm not usually that surprised by mass stupidity, but that is goddamn ridiculous. The same thing happened a period of time later, with The Mist, a movie that was frankly brilliant, albeit slightly demeaning for all of those religious fanatics out there, was never out, despite the fact that they would have got phat moneys! It's this sort of ridiculousness that made me want to move away, so move away I did, to the undoubtedly greener pastures of Winchester, and in all its finery, but what do I find there, but the fact that they're still showing Mama Mia without Mama Mercy, in order to make Mama Money from all the Mama...students.

All this shows is that everyone in the cinema running business is officially batshit loco and that I am the only sane person in the whole city. Although this might be exaggerating things a bit.

May you be thrown from the Casket...

Death is always something that has fascinated me, and terrified me, in roughly equal proportions. Much like my seeming inability to cry, and I'm sure that, far in the future, when I die of some drug/alcohol/exercise overdose, one will follow the other closely. But without poking the large and scary figure standing behind everyone, y'know, the guy with the pointy stick and the dress, I would like to think that my death will not happen for a long time. Or at least until I finish university, because then what will my parents say at my funeral, apart from "He wasted my money in his final days"? And no one wants to hear that. I mean, it's pretty demoralising for all involved.

Like any human being, you would think that I would have no idea what comes after death, but after much thought and musing, I can honestly say that to find the answer, you must first consider cereal. Before you become disgusted, revolted and start to erect an effigy of me, to burn in the name of your chose deity, consider the mystery that is cereal. Cereal is almost a completely new idea. It came out of nowhere. In the 19th century, some person, named after a make of cereal, decided that if he ground up some things and added some noxious chemicals, and then milk, he could make a delicious breakfast snack. Where did he get this idea? It could only have been divine intervention. Which in turn shows the existance of a God of some sorts, which in turn, means heaven. I may be jumping the gun on this one. I don't want to be a fanatic. I am not Ms. Carmody, I cannot stress that enough.

Anyhoo, I remain pretty uncertain as to what happens after life. I am also quite uncertain towards the existance of God. And not knowing both of those things makes me quite happy.

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

Luke keeps his promise

The first world war was terrible. On that note, let's move onto terrible things, such as the recent credit crisis, also known as a "crunch" or an "act" or a "momentary lapse of consciousness, leading to a crisis." The last headline was by an inexperienced newsman, and as such, he was given the chance to prove himself. Needless to say, he probably failed.

As as student of journalism, I am somewhat clued up on current events. Although I almost always buy two papers a day. I cannot bring myself to read the second all the way through, as it is the Daily mail, and I feel that if I do I will be tainted. However, the papers remain bunched up in my corner, holed like moles in the ground, or by a vegetable patch, emitting a strange, ethereal smell, that cannot possibly originate solely in this world. Perhaps it derives its dark texts in another dimension. If anything is sure, it is that we will never know.

The credit crisis however, is something that still alludes me in the sense that I don't know what the hell most people are saying. I know that banks gave too much money out. And I know that for some reason, the government bailed those people out. Now presumably these people landing too much money are the best of the best in their And so they should know when it is a "little risky" to lend it out. So why do it. I feel all this could have been avoided. Then perhaps (and this is probably most likely) I have no idea, having had no economic training whatsoever. BUT. I still know that at this particular moment in time, it does not affect me. As far as I know. I'm afraid that it has. What if it has?! Am i losing money?! Am I right now losing money? Oh Christ. This is exactly the sort of thing I don't need! Although I'm fairly sure my father will refer to it as a life lesson. Like everything else bad that's happened to me...


The Relationships between Otherworldly Forces and Chronic Procrastination

My Internet collection of insane works has been somewhat neglected, and I am to blame. Many analysts have been collating information on this lax of public service, and all of them have agreed that the source is either me being a distracted late-adolescent, or simply cosmic forces guiding my every move. Or is it the third option, that I simply have become too famous to continue such a paltry exercise. No. All the analysts agree that it is most likely that I am a distracted adolescent.

But then again, the term analyst is described in the Pocket Oxford Dictionary, 2008 Edition as someone who;

"1. Analyses in detail"
"2. Psychoanalyses"
and finally;
"3. Harbours a deep seated hatred for all writers"

So, concluseively, the worlds sharpest minds are effectively out to get me. But then again, the term "Analyst" has the word "Anal" at its peak, which frankly, cannot be ignored.

A fourth reason, that I have just thought of, which could in fact be considered option 2b, due to it's undeniably cosmic nature, is that the on the eve of my most successful post, entitled "With a little help from my friends..." which gained over 1 reader(s), I immediatly became disenfranchised with the concept, that is, until tonight, the 11th of the 11th, out of which both numbers contain a 1. Coincidence?!

I have just thought of something again (an occurance that disturbs me greatly), option 2b, could also be considered option 3b, due to the aspect alluding to fame, and its various connotations.

I resolve, as an early resolution, to resolve to change my solution to my problem, which is in fact the solution the the revilement I hold myself entrapped in. I shall, write more often.


Tuesday, 28 October 2008

With a little help from my friends...

I can engage in illegal substances. That's what the Beatles were teaching us, with their criminal ways.
A lot of things are changing still, and its rather weird, considering the schedule I'm supposed to keep. Today for example, I found out that I can wake up at 9.30am and still type coherently. Its a skill I intend to master, as well as the art of going to bed a little earlier than 4am. Apparently more sleep is good for you, who knew?!

I have always been a creature of habit, an many of these habits are not particularly the cutesy little niggles that you would want to share with a partner, that is until you have trapped them in the interminable shackles of wedlock, then you can feel free to go nuts. A habit, like I said, of going to bed at 4am. This is not a good thing to do. At 4am, something strange happens, your mind deceives itself, making you think that keeping the eyes open, and watching songs from pop-culture musicals is a good thing. It is not. It is a very bad thing. Not only that, but you are also tricked into thinking that you are on the verge of doing work, but are merely taking a break, and you'll get "right down to it" after the next act. It's a deceptive scenario, with a vile aftertaste that often makes me wash my mouth, just to rid myself of the taste of sulphur.

Moral of the story, get off the Internet, and read. Right now, law for journalists. Kick ass. Lets, um, read this...mother?

Okay, I can't street talk.

Sunday, 5 October 2008

Fast Times at Internet High

After taking a break, as I often do, from the busy life of surfing the Internet, waiting for something more interesting to blast into my life, like a space-age Napoleon on a unicorn, I tried something a little different. I've been meaning to shop for clothes for a while now, and the fact that I ran out of clothes within two weeks of not washing them sort of shows that I'm running a bit short, and that perhaps I should take out some of the billions of dollars in equity funds (lies) and dole out some cash on something to make me look a little snazzy. However, being the interminable excuse for a man that I am, I was not alive enough, being racked with the fabled "freshers flu" at the time, and so I turned to a whole new kettle of fish. The realm of Internet Shopping. (dun dun duuuuuun, dramatic exposition)

Okay, you all saw it coming.

Well anyway, the whole experience, as horrible and frightening as it was can roughly be summed up in one not-at-all made up anagram; REAL. Really Expensive And Languid.

Okay, its a little forced, but the point I'm trying laboriously to unearth is that the system that many mainstream stores use to buy clothes and other items is fundamentally flawed, or, in more succinct terms, bollocks. I should not have to write my card number four thousand times in about four thousand different combinations that would put the maker of the enigma code to shame, although lets face it, working with the Nazis should be shame enough, and to be fair, he probably had a lot on his plate, but I digress.

Another issue is the newsletter. Unless I sign up for a bi-centennial-quarterly-week newsletter, I am denied access to the very items I have paid for. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for subtle advertising, and I sometimes even have a modest interest in a passing billboard as I streak past it in my fast car with all the female movie stars inside, but this all seems a little forward. It's kinda like when someone asks if you would like to donate to charity in the street, and you guiltily oblige, only to find that you have to sign a contract and supply three forms of I.D and a sperm sample to prove you aren't going to out-fox the dolphins.

Well, it's probably not like that, but in any case that's forking annoying.

I guess I can't really complain about the whole system though. Considering all the progress we have made in the matter of computers in the last twenty years, it's unsurprising that a shop consisting entirely of robots would have a few glitches, and of course it could just be me being a giant idiot and not knowing which number is the card number.

And all I wanted to buy was a tie, and you cant really rely on places like Topman for that, because if you re going for the whole tie and shirt look, and you're shopping in Topman for that sort of thing, the likelihood is you'll end up looking like a new-age fluorescent cockney Emo twit, at which point you'll have gone too far up your own arse to qualify for a student rail card, so I suppose the whole experience was worth it in its own special way.

Safely walk to school without a sound

Sunday, 28 September 2008

First Impressions (Of the best time ever)

In the way that a prehistoric animal might peek its head out of the putrid primordial ooze, blinking in the harsh sun, I have risen up from the teachings of many a large, totemic mystic* to grace a university with my presence. And again, like the humble sea slug from which all life is descended, the first question on my mind, on any one's mind in this sort of situation, "What, dear world, can I eat."

Of course, for starers, I sampled the wide range of culinary delights that came from the back of a moped. Pizza supplied by a caveman, with the term "personal" apparently meaning "leftovers". A fact that I would have no quarrel with, were it not for the fact that the main ingredient seems to be LSD. Yes my friends, Lucy in the sky with diamonds. That's why it tastes so good. Its batter, cheese, tomato paste and nothing more than a little LSD. That's why you're tasting delights. Anyway, the main concern from leaving home has been the incredible over-abundance of adverts. I have enough to cover my wall. Which would be good if my subjects were the absolute luxury of fast food, but its not.

Its not helpful at all. Mainly a hindrance. About half way through, if you were observant, you may have discovered that I was typing drunk. I did this because I am a student, and because, for the sake of journalism, i decided to show the authentic experience. This is, primarily, being legless, and making jokes which aren't funny. This isn't me. This is a carefree student. Who can't wait to be drunk, and considers time not drunk, as time wasted.

Oh wait.

I guess that is me.

I am an idiot student.

I mean...carefree student.

I am...I am ashamed.

Well you know, We all want to change the world


Tuesday, 27 May 2008

The Fightin' Irish

Although not specifically about the Irish populace, of which I have the horrible, horrible honor of being decended, I feel I must relate occurances that have happened to me, because, well, I guess both you and I have nothing better to do.

Try and deny it, but you're readin'.

I never knew that a certain joke was such a devastating reality, in the respect that it could shatter worlds like glass, and puncture dreams like tyres. Tyres being punctured. Not tyres puncturing things.

You got it.

A common joke is often:

"Guffaw, Star Trek is so sought after by nerds its practically a religion"

The reality is, It is a goddam religion.

At least, in the sense that the nerds defend as such.

When someone starts waving knowledge about vulcan mating rituals in your face, you know you have to get out of there as fast as you fossibly can, because that Star Trek motherfucker will destroy your soul, and erase any useful information you had in your brain, and replace it with pure Spock.

I know people are going to say "But Luke, you like Star Trek", and its true, to the degree that I will watch it, and enjoy it in a way that I will sit back and think "that was an programme with good things".

However, I am not devoted to the point that I believe that fans need their own goddam food.

That would be the stupidest suggestion.

My typical reaction is to avoid such people, but lest the situation be unavoidable, I will be forced to take action. No more will a Star Trek enthusiast destroy me on an internet forum. Especially since Its the only forum I take place on, (I think they are stupid) and im using to apparently "make friends" (Its that univesity one).

My blood boils. And not for the usual reasons. Because I stopped eating red meat and full fat cream as a meal.

I stopped hardcore.


He got joo joo eyeballs?

A break from Standard

Its come to my attention that I dislike something.

And, more often than not, when this fatal occurance happens, I am cast away like a piece of pesky litter that has been bothering the caster somewhat for what seems like weeks, but may be days.

The dislike has spurned me to break my promised hiatus to let everyone know, and possibly hate me for it. I dont mind. The haters are probably just angry people.

Angry, maleficant people. My hatred for a certain time of year, or even period of time is about to become what is known in "the business" as "public knowledge".

This shit just got mainstream.

I have a great amount of hate for the space of time known as "study leave".

There you go, I said it! I got it out there! Im insane and theres nothing you can do!

But I have to think, as is my way, that the vitriol I hold towards study leave is born of my own personal vices. This being my incredible talent for doing no work, and still feeling justified.

This is greatly provoked by the other talent i possess, which remains entrapped in my personality despite the recent appearance of brain-chemistry altering items, which is the incredible skill to promise myself a day of work, then continue to promise myself, even though the day is rapidly dissapearing.

I think that the only reason I do not work during this time is because of a lack of deadlines. I work to times allocated to work. I work when working time is designated, not just sprayed around like too much orange juice, and the result being a burden, in respect of cleaning the orange juice away, because its sticky, and hard to lift. Like many citrus fruits.

Im really thirsty.

This problem I have is probably rooted in all of the others, and I think im really wrong. Im aware that today is a bank holiday, and that it is half term this week, so I shouldnt be complainin', but im still angry at a hypothetical situation.

Its stuff like this, isnt it?
Its stuff like this thats making me not work.

Well, you'

...Im gonna get back to work.


'Cos you'll only end up picking up nickels and dimes.

Thursday, 24 April 2008


Where has the test gone?! we were all okay yesterday, and now its gone! I need to complete the test for next week!

Why'd it have to go, I dont know, it wouldnt say.
I said something wrong,
Now I long for yesterday-ay-ay-ay.

I guess the love affair is over.

I thought we could work it out, I mean, all you need is love. Its not like you need anything else...

Dont judge me. I can lace my things with whatever I want.

Shut up.

Penny Lane.

I never give you my number...

I am unhealthy. In fact, the previous statement is somewhat of an understatement. I am extremely, indulgently, to the point of riskiness, unhealthy.

Its risky.
Risky business.

You dont want to ne CEO of that company...

I have certain touchstones in the respect of dietary requirements. Engorgement would be a word, but somehow I feel it would be somewhat enobling the process with a three syllable word, when I can describe myself with a single, monosyllabic adjective.
Gross pig.
Okay, that was two, but nevertheless, my point stands true, with definite concerns being present in my eating habits. Heart attacks, mostly, but instead I would like to examine the psychological process behind the whole pre-eating situation. My brain thinks, "I have money. This is new, hey, fancy.
What can I buy? What dont I need?"

The two questions are extremely closely linked, probably to the point where if I were to learn how ven-diagrams work, and make one between these two questions, there would be a sure-fire crossover.
However, the latter seems to be somewhat subconscious, with the answer arguably being; "Food. Lots and lots of food.
Put on weiiiiiiight"

And, expectantly, I cant take it. 3 cans of red bull have made me both unfit and scared for my life, as my heart stands on the cusp of defeat.

Ah well. One can only hope that I do not die. From food. Which can happen. Ive seen it on 't telly.

Even though I weigh...(intermission as I go weigh myself)...11 & 1/2 stone.

Water weight?!

I mean its heavier than the last time I measured myself. Admittedly that was 2005. But still. Its bad. Or nothing to worry about. nothing to worry about. nothing to worry about.

Oh Goats cheese sandwich, You shall be my downfall.

This is a slight anticlimax...

Youve been a great audience!

Friday, 11 April 2008

The Immortal Revelation.

The last few posts seem somewhat disjointed. This is because they are. They are in reverse. When I write, I forget to actually put the blog posts in the blog. Im silly like that.

So forgive me. Or, if youre an atheist, Deny your maker! Both Options are fun!

These things are Silly

Okay, so im not quite on the latter once again, more on a sporadic basis, when my craziness appears to be at its peak. Which is almost never. Rest assured, I am fit and healthy. However, tommorow, its operation time. Probably why i cant sleep, and its actually tommorow instead of the day after thus. Im worried, im scared, and I know im only going under for a couple of hours, but the last few days have been nothing but bad. The weekend of exuberance and relative hedonism served as an excellent culture shock, showing me that right now, in sleepy Somerset, I may be wasting away my greatest years. That is not to say that i do not like it here, and that I do not love my friends and family dearly, with all the love my tiny, blackened coal of a heart can possibly give, because that is simply not the case. All i know is that it is time for a change.

Its time for me to move on and start growing up. No more of this "being able to do stuff but not really". It doesnt suit me. I daresay that when I reach 18, nothing will have changed, and that I will still be the bitter grumpus that I am now, but my resolve to truly meet the life I want will be stronger.

It seems that after the weekend, and my happy times, the heavens decided to take a dump on yours truly with several mishaps that will scar me for life.

1. Being robbed by a person I will never meet, and feeling endangered by every corner of the internet henceforth.

2. Seeing a man flatline whilst I was meant to be taking the man in the bed opposite down for an X-ray.

3. Having all emotive thoughts pushed out of me for an unknown period of time, due to a horrible sight that i will never recover from.


Having the showers turn cold every time i stepped in them for two days

You guessed it, 2 & 3 were at the hospital. They were medically related. It is no surprise that my reality has been shaken by these events. I cannot tell, when thinking about it, wether this is divine intervention, or mere coincidence. Perhaps it is Karma, that after a good weekend, I get loaded with a load of unpleasant things, to event the universe out. Perhaps God, or another deity, is structuring my life to meet these events, in order to show me my own mortality and to make a difference in my life. Perhaps its just one big hoo ha, that im blowing up. Making a mountain out of several horrible, horrible molehills.

Am I supposed to believe in God after this, or disbelieve in him? Am I supposed to start following Karma? Am I being punished for something, or is this a truly important divine lesson, telling me I need to shape up?

It would seem that I have some serious thinking to do.

And because I cant sleep, I have plenty of time to do it.

I guess thats one for the "pro-God" collumn.


Whenever I feel edgy, or on the verge of panic, or lonely or insecure, Ill just have to accept that its the painkillers. And not my overpowering sense of prospective failure.

OR, that im crazy.

Both are great.

Both pretty much get the job done.

Undeniable Proof

I am not a scientist. I am not full of logic. I am a funny man. That is my profession. This is my dream. Ridiculousness with seriousness. This is my aspiration.

The proof is that when i read the paper, and read about the terrible recession that is looming over our fair post-post-empiric state, all I can think of is mission impossible.

I mean, IMF? Really?

I mean, I dont even watch the show...

Psychobabble in Prose

Apparently myspace knows me better than I know myself. I mean, why else would it offer up its diagnosis for a condition that i deemed essentially superfluous in the general population.

I am referring to a post I made what seems like aeons ago about depression and its place in society with the "dixie chicks" and "fancy lads" or whatever the kidz are calling eachother these days. But now, myspace seems to have deemed me, like a psychologist being commited for stockholm syndrome, depressed myself.

Well now, thats it. I have no option but to be incredibly down and low at all times. So much for listening to happy music, no more hedonistic tirades, its all over for me.

Now all i can do is complain.


Love Y'all

Inconspicuous Increases

Apparently I am now rich.
This has come as a surprise, and also a shock, and despite these words similarities in definition, I prefer to live in a world where these two collections of letters can form a seperate entity, but be grouped together, much like a collection of Films into a "box-set", despite the fact that the only thing connecting them is their genre.

Sometimes less than that. Sometimes its just because of ethnic reasons. Sometimes its no reason at all. When i see that, Im like "woah".

Because its rad...

I digress.
But not much, as it happens, because im moving neatly on from viceral entertainment into more viceral entertainment, albiet the fact that the latter is much more real to me at the present moment. I like books. This much is clear.

During what I like to call the "long weekend" period of my life, which consisted of every holiday I was forced to go on with my parents, which, for the most part, consisted of activities which, for whatever reason, I felt were dejectable tripe, I had nothing but reading to pass the time, under which the excuse for my not wanting to "look at the coral shops" was mere education.
Often enough the brought books were scarce, and I had to find my own sustinence in the form of book swapping in insipid little cafes which did little but add a little more of the "local flavour" to a place that was already crowded with western jargon and confluences of tourist friendly dirge that one would be obliged to accept, and the books I gained I took solace from.

The long weekend period of my life is over. No more will I have to embark on these vacuous excursions in order to "broaden my horizons". Well, not with my family.

The difference with my friends I guess, is that I like my friends. That is to say, I like spending time with them.
So, the moral is that i like books, but if the long weekend has taught me anything it is that books are something to be owned, and not lent or borrowed, and certainly not rented, not that I have anything against libraries.

So now, with my new "richness" (which isnt all that rich, lets not forget, im speaking purely from the point of view of a teenager who has earned no more than £3.60 an hour waiting tables and mopping up placenta for a year, and so £9 an hour seems a drastic step up) I intend to buy alot more.
These things being:

1. 30 days of night (dvd) - £19.
2. The Jeeves Omnibus volume 1 - £14.
3. BRMC (cd) - £15.
4. I am Legend & other vampires - £16.
5. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip - £39.

All worth £107.95.


This is my concern. And im in the midset of "ah want it now, ah cant survive without it".

Oh dear.

It seems money brings nothing but more troubles.

I think I was happier poor...

Monday, 17 March 2008

my stupidity and incompetence

I cant even spell right tonight. Thats why tommorow, theyll be a double post of what I hope to turn into a 5-day-a-week affair.

Savour the flavour!

Tuesday, 11 March 2008

Patriotic Disbelief

I return once more from a weekend sabbatical from blogging, in order to talk aimlessly and come to an eventual climax where everyone goes "ohhhhhhhh."
Everyone being the three people that read this. You know who you are. You champs, you.

But needless to say, my enthusiasm drifted somewhat over the weekend, as I entered a hibernation of sorts, resting in my bed and chair alternately, fueled by a combination of night nurse and strong antihistemines. The resulting dreams were ghastly, and seemed to focus alot on failure, aswell as my fear of being in zombie movies. Now I want to be very specific on the movies part, being that my zombie dreams seem to contain brilliant dialogue, and plot twists that were frankly incredible. Really, I didnt see them coming!

When the question of food came drifting into my mind, I had to think, really think, about what sort of food I wanted. The possibilities, the adverts say, are endless, and naturally I can get on board with that way of life. When the option came, I chose a pizza. Probably not the wisest of choices in retrospect, especially not for a dehydrated person waking from what felt like a 15 hour coma, but nevertheless, I proceeded.

It wasnt a good choice. Its never a good choice, in any capacity. If i had children, I would surely sit them on my knee, and say to them lovingly, "Son/Daughter, your 17 now, and its time for you to know what you should and shouldnt do."
To which the reply would be:
"Dad, you tell me every year, and why do i have to sit on your knee? its really weird."
"Yes dad?"
"Dont eat ready made pizza thats stale when sick. Its not good for your body. Its not good for your health."
"Okay dad"

And following the the interchange of conversation, not only would they be scarred for life, but they would leave that little bit more educated, that little bit more worldly, that little bit more knowledgable. And I would be safe in the knowledge that one less teenager would make the same mistake I did.

But anyhoo, the main crux of this was to ascertain why I enjoy the so called "ready meals", especially after my father had been cruel about the whole subject at breakfast. And the simple answer is; Its food. Probably not good, not wholesome, but it gets the job done, and pretty fast. I wont eat it every day. Ill be surprised if I eat it more than once a week, but at this point in my life, I couldnt care less whether the ready meals have pasted beetles wings or not, because frankly, its just damn convinient. And isnt that what England is all about? Wanting to do something, and not doing it, and choosing the easy way out? like in every war? and in every faucet of English culture? In this respect, isnt slacking the most profound and brilliant of English Pastimes?

God bless the Queen?

Thursday, 6 March 2008

And now you know...Ding!

Its no mystery between anyone that has met me that I love the English language. And hare brained schemes. But the latter is somewhat unimportant when compared to today. Today was World Book Day. Or "pick up a book and read day" which seems to be terribly less catchy. In every regard. Also, I forget which one it is.

Nevertheless, im sure that it involved reading. Now reading is an important pastime, which I both enjoy and endure frequently, when the mood strikes. I like it. It takes me to places, inspires and encourages creativity, yadda yadda snore. But there was something about today, and being forced to read, forced, by our delightful head of year that made me feel tired, angry, lonely and confused. And not in a good way, in fact in a manner not unlike having to read Postcards for my infernal English course, it makes me feel like im pressured to do something. Which for me, is an incredibly disgusting feeling. Let me tell you a story...

At the start of year 12, I, like many students, had an incredible amount of free time. The year was new, the school was fresh, and I needed something to occupy my time. I had always like reading the funnies in the papers, I would cut out Garfield, and to a lesser extent Marmaduke and stick them places, because they were funny. I thought "Pfft, I can do that" and so i started drawing. I started drawing alot. I drew to the extent that my work slipped and my grades at the end of the year slipped. But i didn't care, because what I had to show for the drawing was alot of sketchbooks that I could look through and see progress. I dont mean amateur progress, I mean that the cartoons that I was drawing were of passable comic standard. I guess Jim Davis passable.
on may 2007 I attended the Bristol Comic Convention. A distinctly geeky activity but still. I was amazed at the compliments I got for the comics and cartoons I had drawn, and people who asked for my website, to which i would sheepishly reply, "I dont have one guv'nor" (because i was cockney). I drew still, all through the summer, and past the year long threshold, and everything looked great for me in the world of cartoons.

Then one day, I stopped drawing. I just stopped. I stopped, and I never started again. I havent drawn for over 5 months now. Why did I stop? I cant remember, pehaps I lost enthusiasm, perhaps I got bored, perhaps I had a bad day and didnt feel like it. In any case, I had stopped, what felt like for good. For a few weeks after I felt guilty. "perhaps I should draw" I would think to myself, and then something would stop me, and the guiltiness subsided after a while. I cant quite think what it was, but I have a feeling that it was something to do with someone asking me to draw something for them, maybe a logo. Someone I didnt know. The overwhelming feeling of having to actually reach a deadline with something that I felt was a simple creative outlet was pressuring, it was making me worry; "is this good enough, can i reach the deadline, what happens if I forget."

It wasnt a hobby anymore. It was a job. And I didnt like that. Something about being forced to do something that I used uniquely(from a certain point of view) put me off it. So I stopped. And Im afraid that in this respect it didnt make me happy any more. Like reading, and being forced to do it.

The point is that im afraid that being forced to read for three years of university may make me hate reading, and i dont want to do that, ever. So exuuuuuuuse me if i dont want to "Drop everything and pick up a book".

Jesus. My stuff might get damaged.

BUT... all this will never happen with writing right?

Guys? Right...?

Wednesday, 5 March 2008

Objective Disparities

I write this with very cold hands. Probably a useless fact, but one might be willing to remember that cold hands cause the muscles to slow down, due to lack of blood flow. Thats right friends, I be Knowledged. But it might account for typos. And extra letters, never know...

...shut up...

WHilst its true that my hands may be cold, I need to say that this is not the fault of some far polar denzien, or a wind originationg therof, but the simple fact that I am too moronic to put on a coat when driving, and I haven't thus far figured out how to work the central heating on the car. "I rarely need it!" I yell at my father, as he beats me round the head for being so stupid. "Its always warm!" to which he replies, with contempt in his eyes, his voice almost at a whisper,
"Its winter, idiot."

Now my father, or "Dad" as he prefers to be called, calls me lucifer. Which is weird. And he also, if you can imagine it, is a person that suffers from temporary spontaneous obsessive compulsive disorder. Something I have inherited to a degree, and as such he gets very excited about something very fast, fills his world up with it, and the gets bored of it just as fast. I suppose its not that uncommon, but he seems to suffer immensely from it.

In this respect, it is very weird to see him truly excited about something. To truly see the gleam of happiness, regardless of the object or activity in question. Yesterday, I found that something. I saw that gleam. The thing was none other than the movie Sleepless in Seattle. The following conversation is true, and what happened verbatim when he saw the nights television listings.

Dad: YES!
Me: What?
Dad: Its on!
Me: Whats on?
Dad: Sleepless in Seattle!
Me: Sleepless in Seattle?
Dad: Sleepless in Seattle!
Me: Why are you so excited?
Dad: Its a classic!
Me: But you hate movies. You dont like much in general.
Dad: Yeah, but this is Sleepless in Seattle
Me: I can see that, but youre apathetic most of the time.
Dad: Yes, but this is different!
Me: Tom Hanks is different?
Dad: And the guy from Frasier. And the president from independence day.
Me: ...Jesus.
Dad: No, Sleepless in Seattle

See why im freaked out? Even Im never that excited. Except about Breakfast at Tiffanys.
"Breakfast at Tiffanys?"
yes, Breakfast at Tiffanys...

Sunday, 2 March 2008


Is alot like the word Blowin'. Which causes things to fall down. Which is the state of affairs in many of the publics houses after a "large" earthquake hit the sunny shores of Great Britain this week. The end is nigh, and the end is also the end the regular news at this point. Because people will be covering it all of this week. Covering it with their flopping, arryd, lifeless bodies. Because it was totally extreme. Dudes.

I couldnt give a damn. Well, I guess I could, but to be honest, I would be expending energy that could be put to other causes. Like using my arm to lift the last hobnob from the packet to my mouth. Over, and over, and over again. But I digress. I have many more important things to do, with my life especially, and with the only thing I have planned for this weekend being an excursion to my hopeful future abode, you'd think that I would have time to do such things. You would think that as an able young man, ten times the stronger than my ageing and irritable father, with a brain as sharp as a tack and an even better resolve than the former and latter, I would be able to complete a tiny, itsy bitsy essay. BUT...nahhhhhhhhh.

Procrastination is in everyone and everything. Its why we get up in the morning, because we procrastinate going back to sleep, so we do something else, and its why we dont get enough sleep, because we stay up late watching bad movies. Its why we eat, and its in the very air we breathe. Its why we have got so far as a species. So dont not procrastinate. The killer bullet, the silver bullet, to our metaphorical werewolf, is procrastinating procrastination. THEN, we can get some work done.

Only me?

Double you tea eff

Yesterday I embarked upon a voyage of tribulation, sacrifice and nervous pretention, allowing for steeliness and trepidity of spirit. I also went on a train.
Many people are afraid of flying. Not unjustly either, considering the fact that they are traveling a mile high in a giant steel tube, held together by similar materials, and held up by thicker, shorter steel tubes. With fans. fans. Fans that are reversed, and pointed in the opposite way to the place you want to go. And this scares even me. (I know people, luke, scared? surely not? but its true)

But what could possibly scare me more, or at least the same amount? A giant steel tube balanced on two pieces of metal less than a foot wide. I found out yesterday that I am afraid of trains. No kidding. And before you start the ridicule, remember that this ia a machine that can be stopped by a leaf. A leaf! I ask you!

But nevertheless, i was able to get by. Im out of things to say. SOOOOOO ill just quote something.

"Holly Golightly Im in love with you"
"So what?"

Great holy christ i think im in love with Audrey Hepburn. The Breakfast at tiffanys version. Not the corpse.

I dont even know if shes dead or not.