Salve frater! (That's Latin for 'sup bro, a seamless fusion of street and snob) Welcome to the readerharbor, readership. Put down your readersails, allow your readersailors to disembark down the readergangway and drunkenly rampage through the womenfolk, leaving in their wake a trail of bastard children unable to accept the fact they are the offspring of a tenuous over stretched pun. This is the blog of myself, Detective Veritable Galanthus, packed full of rants, metaphors, anecdotes and general misanthropy. Enjoy your stay.

Sunday 11 November 2012

Inebriation

I am currently slightly inebriated as I just saw some pretty lights which are commonly referred to as fireworks then proceeded to visit a friend's house with a large enough party of people to defeat a level 125 dragon and drank several bottles. Due to the fact that my metaphorical weight is light, that is to say that I have a low tolerance level for alcohol I was rather drunk but having got home, the home in which I am presently sitting and what a lovely home it is, and enjoyed a nice cup of tea I realize that I may have said things I should have not and done things perhaps better not done but the emphasis is firmly on the latter. I will definitely regret this in the morning when the nice fuzzy haze of alcohol induced happiness, like a lovely pink fog made of candy floss, slowly dissolves and fragments in the sharp rays of the morning sun.

 The fact that my currently intoxicated narrative voice is probably not that different to the speech mannerisms I employ when sober on this special little corner of the internet referred to by travelers as my blog is probably indicative of something but what it is I shall deduce and detect, as I am a detective and a very good one at that, in the morning because my mind will be sharper then. Although I did have a story idea (and i shall record it here in case i forget) about a detective who can solve murders when extremely drunk.

 potential extract: The body lay, cold and motionless in the center of the drawing room. "My god", said Detective Stephen Baxendale, as he cast his expert eye over the scene of the crime, "This is some serious shit." Quickly he turned to his assistant, the ever present butler whose name was Timothy Fendleweed, and ordered, "Timothy, get me two bottles of beer."
 "Yes sir," replied Timothy with much enthusiasm for he was a young sprightly creature eager to learn the tricks of the trade though he would not be learning anything with this particular detective since his methods were very specialized.
 Just as the butler was walking away, Stephen looked at the still corpse again and shook his head, "wait Timothy," he sighed suddenly, "This looks like a tough one to solve. Make it a bottle of vodka"
 "Yes sir," came the enthusiastic reply followed by the click of well polished shoes on rich marble tiles as the butler hurriedly exited the room.

 Wow, that looks like a bestseller. What would the title be? The drunk detective or the Pissed Private investigator or maybe the inebriated inspector. I am sending out these alliterations like a machine designed specifically to create catchy titles, an alliteration automaton. I'm not sure 75% of this post made sense but I'm sure even if it didn't the remaining 25% will be absolutely quality reading. Anyway no one reads my blog so its fine, for all anyone cares I could spill my deepest darkest secrets on here (like I did when drunk at the after party tonight, god dammit I will regret it in ten hours time.) and no one will be any the wiser. I love society. Peace out. I did not just say peace out. And if I did, it was meant ironically.

Friday 9 November 2012

Wall

 Finally the end of the first week of school after a period of mind decomposing, knowledge eroding, intelligence rusting holidays. I have that feeling of having run half a marathon at too fast a pace and coming to the sudden dreadful realization that I still have another few kilometers to go. And this isn't even a normal marathon, it is a marathon through a post apocalyptic world.

 The academic work that I procrastinated over the holidays has started to catch up. As a maddened blood thirsty hoard they are quickly gaining upon me, mindless and hungry like an insane army of the undead. Not even the shuffling type of zombies but the full on running type, their pale lifeless limbs pounding the ground in a frenzied rush to devour me. They had of course simply been the walking dead at the beginning of the holiday when they were first set but over time they have evolved and very soon, I suspect they will soon learn how to operate basic vehicles and become the cycling dead. Merciless lifeless hunters pedaling away at demonic speed.

It is often said that there is some metaphorical wall that any athlete will come up against during a run, at a certain desperate moment when they seem to have hit their limit and by overcoming this wall they will grow as a person as well as regain a certain energy and sense of momentum. If so, then perhaps there will be such a wall for me in my academic work as well, an opportunity for me to break through and become a generally better grade of human being as well as regain my educational capability.

 In fact, I am arguably the very best type of student since, in an attempt to improve as a person generally, I am deliberately conditioning myself to come into contact with that wall of desperation as soon as possible through procrastination and work avoidance. A risky strategy of self improvement that demonstrates my tremendous courage and great aspirations of bettering myself. Hence teachers, as individuals charged with the duty of encouraging the student's growth as a person, perceiving the nature of the student and understanding their motives, should see that I am in fact an exemplary pupil whose current mindset and behaviour should be highly commended not scolded or punished.

 Thus I rest my case, though whether the english teacher will accept my logic when inquiring after the distinct absence of an essay on Monday is another matter entirely and one that rests within the fickle hands of the sometimes cruel gods.

Thursday 8 November 2012

Within and without

I am currently stranded, trapped within a void. My house is a multistory affair divided into distinctly separate living quarters. My family owns the entirety of the large suburban construction but due to reasons of finance we rent out all but the ground floor. Due to this arrangement there is a hallway shared by all the tenants from which branches off a locked door that is the entrance to what I can refer to as my home.

After a particular alcohol fueled nocturnal excursion about a year back during which I lost my keys. My mother has refused to provide me with a new set which means I cannot enter my own abode unless she is home. In the rare instance that she is away, since I can politely ask one of the residents in the higher floors to come down and let me into the building its self, she usually hides the keys to our actual section of residence somewhere in the hallway.

Today however, she has neglected her duties to do so, hence I am currently sitting in the hallway. I am typing this on my phone, while draped tiredly over the stairs which lie directly next to the door to my beloved home. My sentiments of misery are only excentuated by the fact that the motion sensitive lights turn off every three minutes, plunging me into the evening darkness thus forcing me to stand up and display motion in order receive the short attention and glorious light of the fickle motion sensitive machine.

To further emphasize this feeling of pathetic depression, my cat has run right up to the other side of the door to venture on a campaign of continuous melancholic mewing and sad scratching. It has stayed with me these past thirty minutes, crying from the other side of the solid impenetrable rectangle of wood and despite myself I admit I am rather touched.

Now I hear the light clink of the metal front garden fence and with it the approaching footsteps of liberation. So ends my actually brief but sensationally lengthy stay, becalmed within the void.

Wednesday 7 November 2012

Blind Blog #1

 Usually I write these posts with a degree of forethought, planning and structure in order to create an architecturally interesting as well as generally health and safety law abiding literary construction. However today I don't have the energy nor the motivation to attempt this degree of creative pondering hence I shall write everything as it occurs to me though in reality, I suppose that very few people will ever see this post and of those few people, only about a cubed root of them will actually be interested enough to attempt to comprehend the chunk of text. Hence what I write here is pretty irrelevant all things considered and for all anyone cares I could write my deepest darkest secrets but remain comfortable in the knowledge that it will probably remain a complete secret to the world.

 Much as many philosophers have pondered over the question, "when a tree falls in the woods but nobody hears it, does it actually make a sound?" I often ponder, "If a blog writer writes a blog but nobody reads it, has he actually wrote the blog." The answer to which is yes but for a completely depressingly futile cause. Though when all things are considered life its self is generally futile since the main aim of any organism is to leave off springs upon the planet in order to ensure the continued existence of the species and human beings are overpopulated as it is, meaning nothing that I might choose to do with my life matters in the slightest when thought of in a longer time frame.

 The only thing that could make life meaningful would be a situation when the survival of humanity is genuinely at stake such as an apocalypse. Though if such an instance were to occur, I doubt I will survive since I have very few survival skills and am not very high in terms of physical fitness. My only possible advantage would be my incessant paranoia concerning a potentially immanent zombie apocalypse. Which, I occasionally consider, might be a manifestation of my lack of trust in those around me since it is that sort of fundamental fear of familiar people ebing turned into enemies that fuels the concept of the undead.

 Now, that sounded quite deep. About 2000 leagues deeper than the sort of thing I usually write on this blog which is a little problematic since when somebody who is usually callous and shallow suddenly makes deep statements it tends to give the impression that they are somehow depressed. I assure you, if you are considering my mental well being at the moment (not in the sense that I might be a psychopath on the verge of going on a killing spree but in the sense that I might be suicidal) that I not in the slightest bit depressed. Though if I do become suicidal, I shall blame it on genetics, though that may be quite pseudo-scientific, since my country of origin, Japan, has one of the highest suicide rates in the developed world. So much so that, when people jump in front of trains in Japan, there is barely any delay, only a polite mildly regretful announcement alerting people to a "human accident", sounding like it is more concerned with the delay caused than the loss of life, and an assurance normal services will be resumed in a short while.

 Which, in one sense, is quite enviable efficiency since here in Britain, the unfortunate demise of a leaf on the rail tracks can shock Transport For London on such a deep emotional scale that they halt the entire network for a day or so, presumably in mourning. The same comparison of humanity versus efficiency can be made in other aspects as well when comparing the two countries, Britain and Japan. For example Japanese shops are staffed by extremely well mannered staff who will all greet the customer in synchronization upon entry and work at a fast near automatic mechanical pace whereas British institutions tend to employ individuals who prioritize the social relations with their fellow employee than the many customers waiting irritatedly in an ever accumulating queue.

 In the end however, I would take the humanity over efficiency since it does give a sensation of actual person to person interaction. The feeling that you are living in a world composed of individual people all leading their own individual lives towards an ultimate demise but are nonetheless giving it their best shot. The feeling that there are a multitude of potentially interesting stories and melodramas mingling, bumping into each other, walking past each other throughout the packed human test tube we refer to as a city.

 Although presently even this happiness is slowly being eroded by machinery. For example the automatic self checkout machines which have replaced person manned counters in some shops. They are, though they originally broke down more frequently than a depressed pubescent teenage girl with attention issues,  now quite efficient and not only they prevent the human interaction that used to take place in shops but they also make the buyers into nothing more than mere mindless machines. Mechanically moving arms full of desired purchases in time to the monotonous music of the electronic beeps.

 Furthermore the mass creation and release of high quality headphones and portable music players, allowing, as the adverts often quip, the user to immerse themselves in their own bubble like world, cuts off individual people. Where everyone used to travel in the bus, hearing the conversation of others, listening to snippets of other people's lives; they now have their own little musical worlds in which they hear nothing but the music they've chosen. Maybe the two people next to you are discussing methods to counter the immanently approaching zombie revolution because they are secretly a member of an underground mystical organization of zombie fighters. The story should start with you, the protagonist, hearing their conversation and being sucked into their world to be thrust into a hugely exciting adventure of epic world saving zombie decapitating proportions. But instead you're listening to Lady Gaga or One Direction or whatever is popular so you don't hear the conversation and the gates to the potentially interesting future of fiction is forever closed, the opportunity missed.

 In the end this became just a strange slightly deep rant with the atmosphere of an old person ranting about the good old days. Or in a word, conservative. So to wrap it all up, I might as well end on a highly snobbish posh note by saying the moral of the story is the well worn phrase of Carpe Diem.

Tuesday 6 November 2012

Labyrinth

 The internet has always been a mystery to me. A vast sea of information populated by attractive entertaining aquatic life as well as the occasional unpredictable virtual killer whale and spontaneously emerging pixelated Cthulhu. For example I was once, for some academically motivated research matter, searching "Chernobyl" and clicked a photograph of an animal mutated by radiation on google images, this appropriately landed me with a virus that caused a continuous uncontrollable stream of pornography to flow across my screen. Which, perhaps, classifies me as another victim of the Chernobyl Disaster.

 In recent times I had deluded myself into thinking that I had more or less mastered the ever swerving poorly lit maze that is the world wide web. Of course I was not as adept at skillfully gliding through the internet as some of my acquaintances. One of whom, I shall refer to here as Big K for his identity protection and my consequent physical safety, used to often boast the fact he had dived into layers far below the accepted levels of the web. Proudly proclaiming that he had voyaged one thousand leagues under the surface of the internet, where other more innocent users blissfully surfed, with the use of special hacking equipment all in search of ever darker variants of pornography. Which I suspect is, while indicative of the fact he can navigate his way through the virtual labyrinth admirably, a sign that he has gotten lost within the far larger labyrinth of life in general.

 Nonetheless I was happy with my own comparatively basic knowledge of this pixelated universe, proud of the daily virtual survival skills and instincts I had developed with time. I could now successfully navigate myself around youtube while carefully avoiding all related videos that let out the dangerous air of potential long term mental trauma. I could create and manage multiple virtual identities around cyberspace, entering and exiting communities as I pleased, free as a cybernetic social butterfly. I even worked out methods to cheat certain systems with the creation of multiple accounts and mildly fraudulent behaviour. Perhaps all this had made me arrogant.

 However I was brought back to reality and shown how shallow my knowledge of this realm really was by none other than this site, blogger. There is an area of this site which allows me to observe the various statistics and backstage facts relating to my blog. For example, everyday before I write, I venture into this zone, observe the number of views my page has had that day as well as resignedly sigh at the now familiar zero which sits smugly under "number of followers". There is also a tool within this virtual control room that allows me to see through which channel and websites people are getting to my blog. These are displayed as enticingly blue links to be clicked on.

 Wondering what my third top source of traffic was, I clicked one incomprehensible jumbled collection of letters composing a link to see what wing of the maze it would take me down. The screen window turned white and began to load, my anticipation growing with each passing second then, after a moment, a page materialized kindly bringing to my attention that the page did not exist. Which means that people have somehow been entering my blog from an empty space occupied by an overwhelming amount of nothing.

 How is that even possible?! As far as I knew when a "page not found" appeared, it was a dead end, a blocked path within the maze from where I would then need to retrace my footsteps. But according to the blogger information center there exists some phantom like figure who is capable of slipping through this solid wall and on the other side, apparently, lies this blog. Is it an internet ghost wondering around the online maze? If so are there many of them? Perhaps four, each with a different bright hue all in hot pursuit of an obese spherical yellow binge eater. Clearly the labyrinth of the world wide web is full of more sinister mysterious occupants and mystical loop holes than I had previously imagined.

 If this was not confusing enough, my top source of traffic after that link turned out to be a pornographic website which bares absolutely everything except some relation to my blog. I would hereby like to apologize to the internet gods, ghosts and pac men for my prior arrogance. This world is still as mysterious and unpredictable as ever, a forest that cannot be understood by a mere mortal such as myself. Never again shall I display any pretense of comprehension instead choosing to fearfully navigate my way around its twisted corridors like the clueless worshipper within the temple of the gods that I am. I'm sorry.

Monday 5 November 2012

Personification

 Tonight I feel, in a word, cold. In two words very cold. In fact, I feel so cold that I could, if the opportunity were to present its self to me, simply go on a long and tenuous descriptive journey purely around the subject of how cold I am. To accurately convey the sheer coldness of my current being, imagine that you are eating a bucket of ground ice, while sitting in a fridge, which is its self situated atop a boat floating in the freezing Atlantic Ocean. Just nearby the Titanic is sinking and desperate survivors are swimming up to your boat for help but you kick them away, I currently feel as cold as your dark twisted heart as you mercilessly dislodge a dying child clinging desperately to the side of your vessel.

 If I were to demand to see the cruel individual responsible for my frosty fate, I would more than likely be directed  to a mirror since it is none other than my own mind that made the conscious decision to go out and see fireworks at a local park with companions despite the temperature. However what I require at the moment is not the rational analysis of my own poor judgment (especially in not taking my thick woolen trench coat purely for the reason that it still stank of alcohol and punch which would have been a minor draw back with hindsight considering the heavenly warmth it would have provided) but some figure at which to direct my, unfortunately all too metaphorically, burning anger.

 I would currently give anything, well, my entire present monetary fortune (which amounts to about three pounds and twenty six pence) for Jack Frost to appear before me, a personification of the natural phenomenon which caused my legs to feel like ready made fish fingers before defrosting and my arms like pain flavoured ice lollies. Though I am not usually the physically violent type, far preferring to psychologically wound the opponent with skillful verbal jousting, I would readily kick the chocolate flavoured soft ice out of Jack Frost to vent my sheer frustration at this bone biting, brain numbing, scrotum climbing cold.

 All I can do however is stamp my feet, rub my hands and curse the current climate as well as the rising cost of gas and electricity bills. Two other things I wouldn't particularly mind being personified to manifest themselves before me as a subject of my anger at the generally conceptual, the Price Rise Pig and the Bill Building Bird. Perhaps I could design them, little fable characters for the new age kids living through an economic down turn. Goodbye tooth fairy who takes childrens' teeth, hello the fat fairy who causes child obesity. So long Santa Clause who leaves you presents, welcome Pawnshop Pixie who takes your stuff at night but allows your family to eat for another few days.

 So the moral of the story is, its winter so wear a jacket when you go out, even if it does have the repugnant scent of stale alcohol wafting around it like vultures around a dying animal. God, its cold.

Sunday 4 November 2012

Party Dark God


Cthulhu bringing chaos and madness to a pizza


Cthulhu bringing chaos and madness to public transport
Cthulhu bringing chaos and madness at home.
 It's the last day of half term, I have spectacularly procrastinated every piece of homework given to me until Sunday evening, I have come to the conclusion that I may have just wasted two weeks of my life and I spent a good portion of today feeling severely dehydrated due to excessive alcohol consumption at a party (which was, by the by, the reason why I did not write anything last night. Most of the creative juices flowing through my veins was vodka grape punch which tasted nice until I added popcorn, pizza, pickles, margarine and yogurt to the mix in a sudden fit of alchemical experimentation.)

In the end I decided I would attend the Halloween party dressed as HP Lovecraft's finest creation, Cthulhu, the octopus faced agent of madness and marine dwelling bringer of the apocalypse.


 Apparently Cthulhu was a little too obscure and though I originally explained that I was a madness inducing terrifying agent of the old gods whenever a random curious bystander asked what I was dressed as, soon I was overcome by the futility of the action and simply replied that I was a green octopus. If Cathulhu is out there, reading my blog, then I humbly beg for its mercy for not defending its honourable and terrifying name to the last. This would make it the second deity I offended that night seeing as I swore on the goddess Gaia two months ago that I shall never drink again. I await divine retribution with fear and a little bit of excited anticipation. In the meanwhile I shall receive retribution from my angry Scottish art teacher for the half term homework due in tomorrow that I am yet to complete. His wrath is potentially more terrifying than that of Cthulhu.

Friday 2 November 2012

Anime Review #1 Puella Magi Madoka Magica


 Since its already fast approaching midnight and I don't have the energy or temporal leeway to write another long article, I shall post an anime review I have just finished writing thus revealing to the world that I am in fact a geek (by the world, I mean my extremely small impermanent readership but hey, they mean the world to me).

Puella Magi Madoka Magica Review

 Studio Shaft can probably be classed as one of the great trolls of the current anime industry (though in my opinion the glorious spot of number one anime troll must be given to Gintama for all its fake film trailers, deceptive series finales and general attitude) and one of its crowning achievements, the ever gleaming polished trophy taking the pride of place within their large cabinet of trolling accomplishments, has to be Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

 The story that the original trailer would have you believe goes a little something like this: One day, a young innocent inexplicably pink haired high school student called Kaname Madoka saves an adorable fantastical animal called Kyubei who offers her the chance to become a magical girl and fight the evil witches who terrorize the human realm. Joined by loving trusting friends, Madoka ventures on a journey of personal growth and discovery to fight unhappiness in the world.

 The studio originally publicized the anime as a heart warming cute affair, the sort of series with an ever-present gentle fluffy pink atmosphere, that would provoke tears and smiles. In this respect they did half deliver, except the tears were that of sadness and the smiles upside down. The entire series is a brilliantly orchestrated crescendo of misery, starting off on a more or less positive mood it quickly begins its light jog down the steep hill of dark tragedy and by the latter parts of the show the jog is a blurring sprint that would blow Usain Bolt out of the metaphorical water.

 By the second half of the series I no longer had any faith in my increasingly unstable emotional relativism because every time I thought I was the most depressed I could ever be, the next episode would come along and prove me totally utterly wrong. This is definitely a show to watch with a phone that has the Samaritans on speed dial in one hand and a box of tissues (To be used for wiping away tears, just to point out in case of any misunderstanding. Yes, there are a lot of supposedly teenage girls who like they’ve only just been weaned off breast milk, running around in cute little frilly dresses and yes the opening does involve the naked title character going through some strange process of reverse cytokinesis. Nonetheless the tissues are for crying into and nothing else) in the other.

 To accurately gauge the levels of sheer animated depression induced by the series, imagine the latter episodes of “Steins; gate” thrown in a blender with the final few episodes of “Mirai Nikki” and Mufasa’s death scene from Lion King. Leave mixture to settle for three minutes then add four table spoons of “Welcome to the NHK” episode twenty-three. Stir thoroughly then pass through a filter to remove any remaining rogue fragments of happiness and the result will be something approaching the levels of bleak sadness in “Madoka Magica” in the same way that beer has alcohol content approaching that of vodka (which, incidentally, you will need to consume a lot of to get over the heart wrenching emotionally scarring scenes within the series).


 The animation is, as expected of Studio Shaft, so high above the top notch that there’s no more ruler to measure by. The art style is that of the standard cute type anime, with physics defying big bouncy beautiful attractive sensual… hair and biologically impossibly large shiny eyes. The true artistic power of the studio manifests its self when the characters enter the magical realm of the witches that is often composed entirely of Shaft’s trademark combination of colouring pencil and animated collage (as seen frequently in “Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei”). This chaotically artistic scenery combined with the cute style characters creates a strange interesting effect that is probably enjoyable even for those who find highly physically disproportionate character designs irritating. There are other demonstrations of Shaft’s cheeky nonchalant surrealism (as seen often in “Bakemonogatari” and “Nisemonogatari” the sort of scenes which seem to say, “yes, this bedroom has no walls, what of it?”) that also help to make the series visually stunning. This combined with a beautiful, addictive and suitably mystical sound track, mostly classical though some not, makes the show worth watching just from a sensory perspective.

 The plot is also far more complicated, both narratively and thematically, than it first appears (Though really viewers should have braced themselves for heavy philosophical content when they first saw Latin in the title). It is often observed that while at first glance they may seem like polar opposites, the genres of science fiction and fantasy are in fact neighbouring countries on the large map of fiction who share a very loosely controlled boarder (no passport checks or anything, let alone barbed wire or armed security measures). Madoka Magica hops easily across this line as the series matures, with rather surprisingly enjoyable twists here and there, the story works as an intelligent deconstruction of magical girls although the ending (of the television anime series, there is a film finale on the way) is a little lackluster. The story and atmosphere is, in short, what you might get if you combined a less pretentious “Evangelion” with a less battle-centered “Mirai Nikki”, that is to say, excellent.

 Taking all this into account, a more accurate summary would go a little something like this: Kaname Madoka, troubled by a nightmare of an approaching apocalypse, one day encounters a strange fantastical creature with blood red eyes and bone white fur. The being offers to grant one wish in return for a life of servitude to several millennia old war between magical girls and witches. Stepping into the dark shadows hidden behind the ordinary life she took for granted, will Madoka be able to resist temptation and see friend from foe? Can she unravel the truth of the centuries old conspiracy and protect those she cares for before the monster of her premonition arrives?

 Sounds good doesn’t it? It is.

Thursday 1 November 2012

Chaos

 This morning I was expecting to wake up to the sound of panicked screaming, the subtle tinkle of glass shattering in the distance, the incessant shrill wail of a car alarm and the hungry crackle of uncontrollable flames. As I lay entrapped within the folds of my comfortable bed last night, I worried about how I would have to step over all the mangled bodies, some suicides, others not, as I walked towards the bathroom for my morning session of bladder emptying. I imagined how I would be forced to toast my morning bread on the burning corpse of some stranger while slicing another cadaver into bite sized chunks for topping.

 To my extreme surprise I in fact arose to the pleasant sound of civilization as we know it not collapsing and had a peaceful morning in a reassuringly non post apocalyptic world. Contrary to my expectations, it turns out that failing to write a blog post for one day does not result in the immediate end of the world. Which I suppose is, although a little disheartening, generally a good thing. Especially considering that my excuse in the event of being held responsible for the termination of the human race would have been quite poor. Standing atop a smoldering mountain of rubble looking down at a disgruntled mob of rag tag survivors seeking vengeance and simply stating, "I'm sorry everyone for causing the apocalypse, I didn't write my blog post for yesterday because I was having a Halloween horror film fest," probably would not have tamed their anger.

 However if its any consolation to anybody, it wasn't that good a film fest. For one thing we watched about one and a half films which probably doesn't quite constitute a film "festival". At best, with extreme optimism, it was a film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside", though realistically speaking it probably didn't even achieve that low height and was perhaps something more akin to a film "birthday-party-of-that-unpopular-kid-in-school-who-isn't-even-bullied-because-the-bullies-haven't-even-noted-his-amazingly-insignificant-existence-yet".

 This lack of actual film watching was due largely to the presence of beer in the lower levels of the house and the general tendency for teenagers to migrate towards the presence of alcohol and consequently, in this instance, away from a showing of the "Rocky Horror Show" but this did not necessarily make it an enjoyable night.

 The first wheel was presumably invented when a caveman, lets say Ugg, found a circular piece of rock and decided to attempt to roll it. Having found that this was extremely entertaining and potentially useful, Ugg then contacted his friend Arg via the use of vocal cords and together they created the second wheel. That night, celebrating the invention and hopeful future mass production of wheels, the two cavemen entrepreneurs hold a party. Its held in Ugg's cave and Arg arrives a few minutes late, carrying a chunk of mammoth leg as a present. He walks into the cave, where a roaring fire has already been lit and is just about to call out when he spots Ugg, sitting in the shadows, making out with Ugga, the girl from the cave next door. That was the invention of the third wheel.

 Winter is apparently the season of romance and relationship forming because the number of couples seem to be increasing exponentially. They spawn in the slightly shady corner of every room in a house holding any thing remotely like a party, multiplying and infecting every possible location within a domestic setting like some sort of romantic mold growth fueled by desperation and alcohol. And this film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside" was no different.

 I was at all times throughout the evening, a third wheel if not more. But at least a third wheel is something, its a tricycle. True, tricycle's aren't the most popular of transport means but at least toddlers still enjoy them so the third wheel is a vital role in bringing happiness to toddlers. Of course what brings about this realization that being a third wheel is a relatively good role, is the experience of being a fifth wheel.

 Even then you can still find comfort in the fact that vaguely important fifth wheels do exist in the world, those wheels attached to the back of big range rovers for example. There, presumably, in case some thing like a randomly occurring shard of diamond on the road manages to puncture one of the monstrously thick tires made specifically not to be punctured. Indeed the event is extremely unlikely to occur but the fifth wheel is an important back up, an existence necessary to give emotional and mental comfort to the paranoid range rover driver.

 The seventh wheel however, the seventh wheel is inconsolable. There is nothing like sitting on a sofa and realizing that you are in a tight competition with the empty beer bottles strewn across the floor for the number one spot of most obsolete object in the room. And taking into account the fact that glass beer bottles can be near endlessly recycled and reused, as well as at some point having had the honour of containing the beautiful happiness inducing substance known as alcohol, whereas you are just a purposeless pile of flesh sitting on stuffed leather while using up oxygen that the three other couples making out in the room presumably have more of a dire need for considering all the panting their making, you are probably the champion of unnecessary existence.

 So the moral of the story is, I need another bottle of beer or three.

Tuesday 30 October 2012

Modern

Well three cheers for the mobile age. Just minutes hence some vital emotional restrainer wound as a safety measure amongst the rusted gears that compose my mother's mind, after much straining, suddenly snapped. She declared that she had had more than enough of witnessing my idle wasting of life span and demanded that I go do my homework (which, rather predictably, I have procrastinated for the last ten days of my holiday). In order to enforce this she emphasized that I do not use the computer until I complete my allocated dose of work.

She was, however, utterly unaware of the capability of modern mobile phones due to the excellent work of which I am currently able to write this post without the clatter of keyboards or the squeal of the door to the study containing the computer. Thereby avoiding detection by my mother's bat like qualities (that is to say, she is capable of hitting people extremely hard and causing fatal injuries).

So hurrah to technology for making it easier to betray my mother's expectations. Thanks to the advances in science and with it the mobility of gadgets, I can now betray my mother where ever and when ever I so desire. I could fail to fulfill her optimistic expectations while on the move or while in my bed or even while on the toilet taking a shit. The possibilities are endless.

Of course as tools become more and more useful, the technology involved becomes more and more compact and complex. When I was a mere infant the only phone I handled was a tacky affair crudely constructed out of plastic yoghurt pots and string. It wasn't that useful but I roughly knew how it functioned and could easily articulate what had gone wrong if an error ocurred, usually by shouting something like "The strings gotten caught on the tree, you dipshit!"

However these days I carry a mobile phone around with me and when something goes wrong I haven't a hope in humid hell of comprehending its exact nature. Yes the screen says that I am in a place without signal but what actually is a signal? And how is it that I seem to get a signal if I move just three meters to my right? Is a signal like an invisible version of a string on my childhood yoghurt pot phone? If so, is there an invisible tree standing in the three meters between the area of acceptable reception and no reception? And who in this instance is the dipshit to be held accountable?

It does feel somewhat overly trusting and dangerous to depend so heavily on something whose inner workings are a complete mystery to you, nonetheless I will continue to utilize this technology because it is a tremendously useful tool.

For all I know there may be a complicated magical mystical system that allows me to send a text in exchange for a portion of my soul so that even as I needlessly transmit the three letters "LOL" in response to someone's utterly unamusing text, I'm dedicating a chunk of my very metaphysical spiritual existence to Satan. But I will still text "LOL" with a perfectly straight face regardless.

If you now think that continuous use of an unfathomable power is a stupid thing to do, think of it this way. If you were to interrogate Harry Potter (a fictional wizard who has now apparently become the unreachable role model for my generation) about how exactly magic works, he would probably break down and cry, confessing that really while he could cast spells, he had no idea of how the system actually functioned. Admitting, amongst much general weeping, that he just used the incomprehensible power of magic because it was useful and that he was the dipshit responsible.

But this ignorance did not stop him using magic to fight and defeat Voldemort in a severely anti climactic cinematic culmination of several years worth of pointless vacuous rubbish. Similarly I am not allowing my lack of knowledge to come between me and defeating my mother. Let the battle continue!  Let me be victorious! Hurrah for technology!

Monday 29 October 2012

Collision

 I am an invalid. Not in the sense that I am not valued or necessary to society though that is in fact true (I suspect I am one of those people who are making minimum positive contribution to the world around them since I am distinctly unhelpful, currently unemployed and not even likely to spend money, the one redeeming trait of the undeserving rich, to aid capitalism. A fact that I am rather proud of since this means that every positive I might take away from the society I add nothing to, therefore becomes a profit for myself in its entirety with nothing given back.) but in the sense that I am injured.

 Today I was injured in a truck related accident. Of all the things that it is considered mortally precariously to be involved in an accident with, one being a unicycle and ten being a jumbo jet, a truck comes in at around seven point five. The incident occurred this morning while I was out on my morning jog (to those who believed that I thought I avoided all forms of exercise like the plague, I would say that the plague was notoriously difficult to avoid, hence the high death count. The Duke of Edinburgh bronze award which I officially started two years ago and have predictably managed to procrastinate completing until this time, requires a minimum of one hour of extra curricular energy wastage every week maintained for one month).

 My jogging route takes me, first from my house to the local park. This route involves crossing a rather busy road where I have had quite a few near death (that is to say, near in the same way that Brixton is near Chelsea) experiences and numerous irate horns honked angrily at my general person. The sort of road which trucks hurtle through quite frequently, with speed enough to quickly transform any careless J-walkers (I have always wondered what the J in J walkers stands for? Jurassic? Japanese? Judgmental? Jewish? Jelly?) into a splatter on the road spread thinner than my grandfather's hair (which must be very thin considering he has been dead these last eight years).

 I made it across this perilous River Styx like road with some help from the zebra crossing ferryman, and entered the park which, according to my normal slightly optimistic running schedule, I would run four laps of in twenty minutes. There is a fifteen meter long section of the park where the path upon which I jog is flanked by two chest high metal fences, one marking the circumference around a basket ball court and the other a defensive barrier acting as noble protective custodians of the childrens' play area. Therefore if a spontaneously appearing truck were to drive at me while I was on that short stretch of pedestrian paving, there would be no way to dodge it.

 As it happened there was a truck in the park today, a vehicle which was being used to transport the tree branches that workers were trimming in order to castrate the powers of nature within the domesticated greenery. Just as I was on my fourth lap, the obese white truck parked its self squarely in between the two fences, completely blocking my way. Through my hazy sweat and fatigue filled vision, I vaguely saw the two blurred figures at the front of the truck signaling for me to go back ten meters or so and run across the completely open flat grassland from where the fence surrounding the basket ball court ended.

 As I recognized this attempt to navigate me, despite feeling worn by the exhaustion of physical movement I gritted my teeth in frustrated irritation. The concept of being moved at another's command fundamentally annoyed me, furthermore I had already run a good fifteen meters, to have to waste that non-refundable energy for the sake of a single lazy truck seemed like conceding a minor defeat to the world. Hence, dazedly mentally conjuring up something inspirational and courageous along the lines of "a true man must not giving up on his dreams and run on forwards whatever adversary might await" or something, I charged on towards the stubbornly stationary truck like a desperately unfit bull at a giant matador.

 Then, at the last possible second, I changed course ninety degrees to my left, grabbing hold of the bars protecting the childrens' play area and heaved myself swiftly up onto its precarious metal frame. During the run my brain had clearly suffered some natural disaster, possibly the disproportionate amount of sweat pouring out of my pores flowing into the cranium through my ears and flooding the brain, since it seemed to me at the time that the most logical course of action concerning the fence was to, using legs still shaking weakly from the exercise of a good jog, attempt to athletically vault over it. I leaped, my black running tie fluttering elegantly behind me then I caught the tip of my shoe on the fence and fell forward into the playground, face painfully making contact with the firm muddy ground.

 It also seemed that during this process (to be exact within the nanoseconds starting from my unfortunate loss of balance on the top of the fence to the graceless gravity dependent arc through the air as I fell, followed by the harsh introduction to the grassy ground) I pulled a muscle at the back of my leg which is why I have been hobbling around the house. A poor crippled victim of a truck related accident.

Sunday 28 October 2012

Geek Day Out

I don't ordinarily do normal diary entries (though that is what a blog is commonly used for) because, by and large, my life is fairly monotonous and uneventful. Hence if I were to write a recording of my day every day, most of the posts would look like individually and collectively dull near identical copies of each other. However today I shall make an exception as I did partake in an event that broke the normal comforting flow of routine by venturing out of my regular territory to visit the Excel center.

 Of course this was no random whimsical trip to the docklands for a view of the shipping cranes and a paddle in the water but a very specific journey to visit a certain geeky event: The London MCM (Move Comic Media) Expo. A gathering that materializes for a mere three days, briefly flaring brightly as the central hub for manga, anime, science fiction, gaming and drama fans within the United Kingdom then disappearing for another few months.

 I was smartly dressed as Kaiki Deishu, a villainous fraudulent character from Nisemonogatari, complete with purple eyeliner (which, due to my general incompetence wit make up, my mother drewn on for me), pale make up (a plan B applied by my mother after I managed to make a horrendously blotched mess of plan A, face paint), red tie pin (made entirely by myself out of cardboard and red paper, my mother had no involvement whatsoever) and ominous dark coat.

 With me was Admiral Savage (A Satan worshiping mad scientist often seen dressed in dark shirt, black torn trousers and tar coloured boots which, speaking from experiencing, hurt when put violently into contact with your testicles. She is also capable of wielding a long sword as well as a fantasy and anime geek) dressed as Makise Kurisu from Steins;Gate, proudly wearing a red tie and lab coat, which fluttered nicely int he wind alongside her especially straightened hair.

 Our voyage to the Excel center was in its self not a simple matter. Due to my general lack of money (and only very recent notice of the fact I required a ten pound entrance fee as well as a travel cost) I had on me only the results of a quick expedition through my bedroom: overturning pots, looking under tables, checking behind wardrobes etc. These yields of my search were, while sufficient in total, composed largely of one and two pence coins with only a few fifty pence coins hidden within the chaotic mass. I had this cumbersome jingling treasure trove of pennies safely contained within an old dirty plastic pencil case, now turned wallet after a period of unemployment.

 However once we reached the station and I realized I needed to top up my oyster card for use of public transport, the situation grew further worse as I desperately dug through my pile of copper coloured circles to excavate the appropriate amount. In the end, since none of the automated machines were willing to receive the meager quantities of cash I was attempting to force feed it, we had to join a long queue to be serviced by a person. With that ordeal eventually overcome, we managed to board the train departing towards the much anticipated Expo.

 Once at the Excel center things ran smoothly and soon, after a brief few minutes in the entrance queue, which was far from boring due to the menagerie of wonderfully bizarre anime cosplayers around us, we managed to enter the main convention hall. There we soon met up with two other like minded individual, one of whom, called Rob (dressed as General Cross from D-Grey Man complete with cloak, red hair and gun) Admiral Savage had befriended over the anime geek's website and online social haven "Anime League". The other, Mike (Dressed as a skull shaped mask wearing character from the game "Army of Two") was a friend whom Rob had brought with him. With these two in tow we aimlessly moved through the maze like geeky market place, reminiscent of a bustling Egyptian bazaar, as a wandering unit.

 My personal highlight of the entire trip, if not this whole week, was a single cosplay (right) of Kyubei from "Madoka Magica" armed with a clipboard upon which is pinned a carefully written, deliberately worded, contract offering people the once in a lifetime chance to become magical girls.

 Not only is it slick, smart and generally dapper to look at, it is also an absolutely ingenious creative master piece when you take into account that the original character from the anime is a cute four legged fantastical animal.(below)
  While observing the strange objects, books and films on display and on sale as well as the even stranger people milling around us, the hours flew by. Soon it was ten minutes to the end of the expo and our little expedition group of four were on our final round of the main convention hall.
 As I walked a key chain of the witch "Charlotte", a very vital villain from "Madoka Magica" caught my eye. I ran closer to inspect the price. Due to the costs of traveling to the center as well as the ten pounds entrance fee and a minor purchase made earlier, I had sent most of my money and larger coins, leaving my battered plastic wallet filled with one, two and five pence coins amounting tot he grand total of two pounds ninety two at last count. The keyring cost three pounds. Ten minutes to closing time, it was the moment for my hidden haggling talent to come forward and shine.

 "Hello," I said to the two nice ladies womanning the store, "If I gave you the entire contents of this wallet," I began, lifting up my transparent pencil case packed with copper coins, "the total of which amounts to roughly two pounds ninety three pence, in exchange for that key chain" I paused, acutely feeling both the confused gaze of the two women and the disbelieving embarrassed stares of my companions behind me, "Would it be a satisfactory transaction?"

 "Umm" muttered one woman, staring blankly at my wallet, "Okay, sure."

 "In fact," I continued, the inner haggler within me finally awakening at possibly the wrong time, "I will also give you this wallet along with the money inside it."

 "You don't really get haggling do you? You're meant to lower the price, not raise it yourself." commented Mike from over my shoulder.

 "I've used it as a pencil case for the past few years," I charged on blindly, ignoring his comment, "It has great value... Sentimentally... to me. It's almost like a family heritage. So, deal?"

 "Umm" repeated the woman, her slightly dazed look sinking deeper into incomprehension, "Okay, sure. You can be our last customer."

 "Thank you," I announced cheerful while silently commending my inner haggler and handing over the wallet with the money.

 The second woman took the wallet, observing its graphite stained, bruised, partially indented, surface as if observing some strange newly discovered life form. Then after a moments pause she commented smiling, "Ah... Thank you, I'll keep this as a memento of this years expo."

 Uttering a further polite word of gratitude, I turned and departed. the weight of the keyring siting comfortably in my pocket, leaving the two shop attendants to chatter with each other and the rest of the four person expedition team to follow. As I marched, my head ringing with triumphant metaphorical mental trumpets announcing my victory, each footstep like a winning army's drum beat, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't left any money for the train journey home.

Saturday 27 October 2012

Fashion


  On this day, after many years of slow reduction through various camp speech mannerisms, actions and choice of clothing, the last crumbling vestige of what could roughly be referred to as my masculinity departed from my outstretched arms. Gently floating away out of my desperate reach, like my prettiest laced hat in the lukewarm summer breeze (due to my current depletion of masculinity I am unable to fashion a more manly simile).

 The final straw that broke the camel's back was probably less akin to a straw and, metaphorically speaking, closer to a brick aggressively hurled downwards onto the animal's unprotected spine.Today I sat myself down before a table mirror and used purple eyeliner while a cheesy pop song, whose lyrics basically consisted of reiterating the singer's desire to become a glamorous super star, played loudly in the background. In my defense, the latter had been orchestrated by four females who had decided to aid me in my make over and the mirror, or in fact the bedroom I was in, did not in fact belong to me. Furthermore the eyeliner was being applied in order to allow me to look like a certain anime character (Kaiki Deishu from Nisemonogatari) since I will be attending a convention in cosplay tomorrow.

 Nonetheless, I admit that this was another large step towards the crucial wavering borderline of opposing genders, the all important division which I suspect I may be dangerously close to slipping over. Before the eyeliner incident, to regain an average amount of masculinity after all the other tremendously camp things I'd done I would have probably had to spend many months in the gym (the balance system being roughly about one bench press per camp hand movement) plus several mandatory hours of laddish sexism. However taking this new eventuality into mind, it may only be a matter of time, perhaps the point has already been reached, where it is just far easier to make a visit to the sexual organ swap shop than the alternative years of gym attendance.

 Hence the issue of the purple eyeliner, potentially the tipping point, is a key matter that must be settled by a higher authority. As I stand in the defendants block of the metaphorical courtroom of gender division, standing trial for excess femininity, all seems lost. I cannot deny that I knowingly and willingly allowed the use of purple eyeliner on my person, attempting to deceive the judge and jury will only result in a heavier sentence. Such an act may result in me being given sixty years in the gym or perhaps even sent to the operating table. However there is one argument, one defense that could turn this case around for me.

 It has always been believed and upheld that the pinnacle of manliness, the height of macho, is courage and the ability to stand firm in the face of those you fear. This has been true for as long as men have existed from the days of the cavemen facing rampaging mammoths, to the much chronicled image of knights battling dragons and even to today, where the actions of soldiers heading into war are commended and celebrated. Furthermore, one commonly experienced phobia, one terror that many people share, is the discomforting sensation of something pointed and sharp approaching the naked eye. In that sense, the use of eyeliner is the ultimate triumph over terror, the supreme display of courage that surely demonstrates the sheer overwhelming butch powers of whoever undertakes the act.

 I appeal to the court that I am merely a forerunner of this new brand of masculinity which will permeate popular culture in a matter of years. If anything my overwhelming masculinity as a pioneer against terror and crusader of courage should be recognized and celebrated. The sheer amount of macho involved in the act of applying eye liner should be enough to annul all of my previous debts of femininity, leaving me a free most definitely man.

Friday 26 October 2012

Appreciation


  The appreciation of some things change with time and maturity. For example some books, when read at the age of ten, felt completely incomprehensible and hopelessly dull but when re read at the age of sixteen felt like the most profound as well as the most exhilarating literary excursion ever. Of course that infantile experience of incomprehension and the realization that there is still a whole universe of literature to be explored is important in its self (The educational equivalent of tough love. Like Spartans of literacy casting their young children out into the textual mountains of unfamiliar vocabulary and complicated imagery, left to fend off the hungry subtle thematic nuances armed only with the alphabet and a vague grasp of grammar) but in terms of appreciating the text for its true worth, a later reread is most definitely worthwhile.

 However there are things that don't seem to improve no matter how many years or experiences are accumulated. Events, ideas or objects which seem as worthless at the age of sixteen as they were at the age of six. I admit that there is a certain comfort in knowing that no matter how much time passes and no matter how altered I may become, there are some things which stay stubbornly the same. Nonetheless it is quite problematic and rather irritating when the said ever valueless thing seems to be universally accepted as mesmerizing and moving. This thing, for me, is fireworks.

 A passionate colourful blossom composed of several million brightly burning particles, vividly flourescent for an instant then withering to float away in the cold night wind. An instant artwork painted on the night sky to fade in a moment, leaving nothing but a ghostly shadow of smoke behind. Indeed fireworks are pretty, an extravagantly beautiful spectacle for the retinas. However I also thought that James Cameron's "Avatar" was quite an extravagant and beautiful spectacle but if they had somehow projected Avatar onto the night skies several times a year, every year for the last sixteen years of my existence, I would have stopped going after the second showing.


  In the same way, I would be able to show the extent of profound amazement  expressed by everyone else at the sight of fireworks only if I were a caveman who had magically time traveled from the prehistoric days to see the luminous aerial display for the first time in my life.

 However as a caveman I would probably show the same amount of awed wonder at the sight of a car or a television or just a toilet flushing but nobody claims that the movement of water down the porcelain U-bend is a moving and beautiful sight to be celebrated (even though it probably took about the same amount of scientific and engineering genius as the fireworks to get it to the standards it maintains today). Couples don't hold hands and cuddle while sitting in front of a urinal nor do parents excitedly drag their children off to go see the toilet. Perhaps its the infrequency of the fireworks that makes it special, maybe if we only flushed our toilets once or twice a year we would appreciate it more and hold festivals in celebration of the toilet, which would, noxious fumes and all, still be more enjoyable than the overly hyped irritating fireworks celebrations of today.

 However, no matter how much I might argue or object, in the end the only response I seem to get is "but its so pretty and nice, how can you not like it?" Even my more cynical and depressed associates, with whom I often rant concerning the many ignored petty flaws of the world, seem incapable of being bored of fireworks. Hence, in this matter, I am completely isolated. Somehow, every single person I have ever talked to seems to enjoy fireworks and will go to lengths such as travel just to go see the repetitive unchanging dull light show every year. So what is it? What is wrong with me? Why can I not like fireworks? Somebody help me! Teach me how to like fireworks! Please!



How does everyone else in the world maintain their appreciation of fireworks? Is it biological, am I a genetic mutation? Or is it through nurture?

 Are all babies taken from their cribs at the earliest stage of infancy and placed in a Clockwork Orange style cinema where they are shown endless reels of how fireworks is wonderful and other similar ideas necessary for a human being to function effectively within society? If so, can I enter the cinema as a late comer because I appear to have missed not only the screening of "How Fireworks Is Wonderful" but also "How Not To Be Socially Awkward" and "General Morality"

 Or if it isn't by nurture but by fundamental human nature then what can I do? Is there some sort of operation I can have to implant that all important fireworks appreciation cell which all homo sapiens other than myself seem to share. What if, in the future, we made contact with aliens and the only way to distinguish between human beings and aliens was by that single feature of fireworks appreciation? I'll be mistakenly identified as an illegal alien and deported to some far away planet at the ends of the galaxy, exiled and alone. Somebody, please, teach me how to like fireworks!

Thursday 25 October 2012

Paris

 After observing my complete inactivity from afar, out of the range of noxious fumes emitted by pajamas worn all day several days in a row, my mother has finally put her foot down. And underneath that firmly descending foot lie all my hopes, dreams and aspirations of spending a relaxing half term. She has decided she will throw me out onto the streets.

 However not out onto any ordinary street but the streets of Paris. She has made the executive decision that I will be spending three days of my half term holiday alone in Paris for no apparent reason. She has claimed that her motive behind this illogical course of action is the improvement of my French language skills but I suspect her chief ambition is to simply get rid of me for several days.

 I can, of course, vividly picture the disapproving faces of the minority of people who read my blog. Shaking their heads from side to side and wondering what on earth I am complaining about. I am to be sent, after all, with some allowance and organized lodging to what could be considered one of the cultural capitals of the world. The center of art, fine cuisine and fashion (as well as racism, riots and right wing power but those demerits are obviously far outweighed by the positivity of a single baguette).

 Though this may, at first seem like a golden opportunity to study culture and fine arts, the one overwhelmingly negative factor is language. I am a being that thrives on eloquent communication, nothing gives me greater pleasure than the beautiful stringing together of an elegant and possibly offensive metaphor. To talk, to tell, to freely swim within the vast seas of vocabulary. To surf on the waves of words or to feel the gentle ebb and flow of a good narrative. To ride on the cheerful back of a pun or word play. These make up about seventy five percent of my will to continue living on this miserable spherical dung heap floating depressingly in space.

 The French however, typical of their generally unhelpful nature, speak French. A language which spans before me as a dry barren alien plain. Filled with hostile shadows, renegade grammatical irregularities and cunning pronunciation problems, all lurking just outside my peripheral vision, waiting for the first chance to strike the damning blow of public humiliation. In French I am a fish without water or to clumsily construct in the enemy language, like a gorilla with arthritis trying his hand at origami, "un poissons qui n'a pas d'eau"

Wednesday 24 October 2012

Paranormal Activity


It starts gradually, creeping up on its unsuspecting victims with menacing patience. First the signs are so subtle they go unnoticed, then slowly the people begin to sense that something is wrong and it has no intention of stopping. Soon the situation escalates, enveloping all in a whirlwind of negativity and by the time the people realize the full extent of its power, it is already too late. This phenomenon is that which is often experienced several days into a holiday, when a person, suddenly without anything to do, falls into a habit of pure laziness. Unable to even build the motivation to venture to do anything remotely constructive, they spend their days lying motionless, physically and mentally decaying. This is known as, Abnormal Inactivity.

 Today, in order to break out of that horrible cycle of destructive passivity, I organized a trip to watch Paranormal Activity 4 with two other escapees. I did not have high expectations of the film having seen its predecessor, Paranormal Activity 3 which had been as imaginative in its contents as it was in its title. A pointlessly teasing and dull cinematic endeavor, complete with characters more two dimensional than a hedgehog on a highway and a plot so shallow that even a suicidal infant would struggle to drown in.

 There was, all in all, absolutely nothing that could be referred to as a point to the film. No intelligence, no message, no plot, no moral. If I were to, as a sort of charity, attempt to excavate (by ploughing through what is essentially a mountain of cinematic excrement) some sort of moral out of the film, it would be that no matter where you are; be it your bedroom, your bathroom, your kitchen or your mother in law's cozy suburban house; the place, even if it seems perfectly safe one moment, can suddenly be turned into a war zone so you should keep up your guard.
 Therefore, with expectations so low that a legless dwarf could vault over it, I ventured smiling maliciously into the rapidly darkening evening to head for the cinema. Wearing my black gloves to keep my hands snug, my dark long coat to shield me from the cold and my top hat to harass people sitting behind me.
 As previously organized, I met Underling Sinister (One of the new girls who entered my school this year. An ever smiling, ever cheerful figure with a scholarly knowledge of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the darker dimensions of Youtube). She too had spent the last couple of days trapped within the confines of her house, aimlessly seeking mental freedom on the internet. Due to prolonged isolation and lack of proper conversation, she had acquired about herself the atmosphere of a long lost sailor who had drifted lost in the seas (left with no one to talk to other than the fish in the surrounding water and his own shriveled testicles whom he called David and Nicholas) to finally reach shore and humanity one again, decades after his sudden accidental exile. In short she seemed extremely elated to be able to have a conversation and more than a little mentally unhinged.

 Third and last to arrive was Doctor Sasha (A polish karate expert with an experience in medicine, meaning he can act as both the breaker and fixer of people. His generally sharp facial features are somewhat reminiscent of either a penguin or an owl, the debate continues.) Finally our trio was complete and preparing to mockingly laugh at a poorly made horror American film, consequently irritating everyone else in the room, we marched confidently into the cinema.

 It is common knowledge that there is nothing in the world that cannot be improved with a bit of sugar, except possibly diabetes, hence our natural course of action, having bought the rather overpriced tickets, was to head straight towards the pick and mix stand. There we deliberated our choices for a good few minutes, measuring up weight versus potential flavor and enjoyment. Eventually, after much careful consideration, we collectively bought a packed bag with the same weight and emotional value as a baby.

 At this point I would like to point out that I do not usually buy things, my primary source of income is to scrounge and beg, my secondary is to steal, this has been my policy for so long that now the very idea of actually using my own money feels like a sacrilege to some ancient religious custom. However today, drowning in the euphoria of not sitting at home crying in a darkened room, I spent money on both my own ticket and even more shockingly, a portion of the sweets.

As we walked towards the screen indicated on our tickets, the gravity of the situation slowly dawned on me. I had, going against every personal protocol, chipped in to communally buy sweets. The only way I could possibly redeem myself, to be able to ever look my scowling self in the mirror again, was to somehow make a profit on the expense of my two companions.

 Screeching alarm bells wailed excitedly in my head, accompanied by rotating red lights for further urgency, in response to this, a cacophony of hurried clattering military footsteps began at every corner of my brain to swiftly merge, accumulate and gather within the section of my mind labeled "mission briefing". In a matter of seconds the soldiers of thought all stood in form and rank, neatly assembled, ready for action. After a moment of disciplined silence, the general, a weather beaten man with a greying beard and broad shoulders, stepped forward.
 With hawk like eyes he surveyed the ordered crowd before him, his glare cutting through to the heart of every man present, then opening his mouth, decorated with a well maintained moustache, he announced in a gruff voice, "The mission is to consume as many sweets as possible. We have paid for about a third of those sweets, we must eat at least two thirds to have an acceptable profit. Time is of the essence, I hereby commence Operation Dessert storm." In response a determined roar rose from the crowd as one, ignoring this, the General waved his hand for the projector to plaster a quick diagram onto the wall. Then, hushing those still talking excitedly amongst themselves, he pointed at the picture.
 "At present," began the General, allowing his deep authoritative tone to resonate within my mind's briefing hall once again, "The bag of sweets is in the hands of one Underling Sinister. However luck appears to be on our side today, we are currently walking towards the seats with Dr Sasa at the front, our unit, Veritable, in the middle and Underling Sinister trailing at the back(as can be seen in step one of the diagram). Therefore we will inevitably receive the central seat between the two and it is absolutely traditional that the bag of food is left in the care of the individual sitting in the middle." He paused, pointing at step four of the diagram proudly and continued with a tone of strong satisfaction "In this way our unit, Veritable, will gain control of the sweets."

 Silently cheering on my good fortune and the excellent work of my brain brigade, I sat myself down next to Dr Sasha, deliberately ensuring that there be an open seat next to me where Underling Sinister would naturally sit. My triumph was complete, either the food would soon be held in the confines of my arms which would make eating them efficiently an easy task or Underling Sinister would choose to hold onto them in which case it would eliminate Dr Sasha from the competition.

 Just as Underling Sinister seemed to be lowering herself into the seat however, my hungry victorious eye met Dr Sasha's and a quick flash of understanding seemed to run through him like an electric shock, "Oh no you don't" he hissed at me. Then he called to Underling Sinister, suggesting "come sit next to me!"
 A surprised murmur ran through the assembled members of my brain brigade, even the General, for a second, seemed flustered, opening and closing his mouth at this unexpected turn of events but regaining his composure a second later. "Doctor Sasha... A true tactician," he murmured huskily, almost absent-mindedly to himself, "He's turned the situation around for himself from worst to best in a single move. Simultaneously ensuring he is closest the food and our unit, Veritable, the furtherest."
 The General abruptly stopped his musing as he realized his men were still standing determinedly, awaiting an order. He sighed a deep resounding sigh, "We've been left with no choice," he boomed mournfully, "Move our unit, Veritable, next to Underling Sinister! We have no other option, its this or give up on the sweets."

 Cursing my opponent's quick thinking, I tiredly hauled myself up from the seat into whose silky depths I had sunk, following Underling Sinister in order to sit next to her and more importantly, the food. However quite suddenly, in the already very darkened cinema room, my foot caught on something, nearly sending me sprawling forward onto the carpet floor. I looked down in surprise to see that Dr Sasha had in fact erected a defensive barrier, a border control, in the form of a raised foot, a trap set to trip. I tried a second time, however as I took one step forward to lift my foot above his leg quickly, deliberately and maliciously, he raised his own leg higher.

 "Sir!" shouted one of the newest recruits to the mind military, his voice filled with barely contained panic "the enemy has created a blockade! His leg is acting as a reactionary wall across the narrow walking space between his chair and the chair in front! There's no way we can cross!"
 "Damnit!" roared the General, "We don't have much time, the film could start any second now!" he paused here, deep in thought, then after a moment he turned to his second in command, talking with slow firm control, "The enemies blockade is predicting and reacting to our movements, correct?"
 "Yes sir!" replied the second in command.
 Slowly a small smile appeared on the General's ragged features, "This is crazy but it might just work," he paused, breathing in deeply, then "If the enemy is reacting with prediction to our unit's movement, we simply need to take an unpredictable course of action!"
 The members of the mind military all slowly looked up, confusion, uncertainty and just a tinge of hope illuminated in all their faces. The second in command articulated all their thoughts with a wavering simple, "Sir, what do we do?"
 In response the General's smile transformed into a large vicious grin, he opened his mouth and shouted one word, his voice sending a tangible blast through the room like some form of sonic explosion, "Jump!"

 I a third jumped, a third vaulted, a third dived over Doctor Sasha's raised leg. Coat flapping behind me, both legs in the air, I had a second of satisfaction in knowing I had outwitted my enemy. Then the tip of my shoe caught on Dr Sasha's raised leg, tipping my face forward as I rapidly neared the ground. A thinly carpeted floor is still surprisingly painful when it makes contact with your face at high velocity. Nonetheless, with aching features and disheveled tie, I had managed to overcome the defensive lines of the enemy. Shakily I sat myself next a laughing Underling Sinister, deeply exhausted but satisfied in the knowledge that I had avoided the worse possible outcome.
 As the film started, however, the other two gradually lost interest in the food, choosing instead to focus on the poorly made horror film. In my mind, the General smiled with satisfaction, this was precisely what he had expected, then barked one simple command, instructing a single move that went against all cinema going conventions set before it. A revolutionary act that broke the fundamental laws of battle but nonetheless brilliant. Slowly I reached across with trembling hands and gently plucked the bag of confectionery from the distracted Underling Sinister.
 Holding the multi-coloured sugar coated hoard preciously in both hands, I smiled a wide malicious grin, victory was mine, though the battle had been long and tough, it had ended with my triumph.
 Though on hindsight however, the true victor was perhaps the cinema for getting myself and two other hapless teenagers to not only invest in overpriced tickets for a film that turned out to be even worse than its prequel which had been pretty appalling in itself but also to purchase an expensive bag full of diabetes. Well, you win some, you lose some and you won't last long, if you can't learn to focus on life's small victories and ignore the defeats.