Racing Time

I am currently having a race against time, my computer monitor tells me that it is 23:42 at the exact moment of the writing of this sentence and if I am to stick to the one blog post a day system that I have set myself then I must complete something within the next seventeen minutes. The starting pistol has been fired and right now it feels like it's been fired horizontally next to me and I'm desperately racing the bullet. And since I am not of African origin nor am I particularly athletic, the latter perhaps more important than the former which could be perceived as a little bit racist, the likelihood that I win is extremely slim.
 For one thing the very fact I've been managing to stick to the "one post a day system"(there's something not quite nice about the ring of that phrase, it somehow has an institutionalized totalitarian atmosphere similar to the Chinese "One child per family system".) considering I'm extremely easily bored and usually any of the projects which I propose with an air of self deception, knowing in my heart of hearts that it really will be the exact opposite, "will be long running" usually end up faltering to a halt two days in.
 Nonetheless I've managed to soldier on this time and I've maintained some sort of structure and residual wit throughout all of my blog posts despite the fact that I have readership which is constantly on a low hanging surface skimming glide above the sea of zero. However even that glittering legacy may come to an end today as I have nine minutes left to think of a coherent topic, structure and punchline for a vaguely amusing, semi witty post which uses a needless amount of convoluted over stretched metaphors and complicated similes, combined with a lovely sprinkle of obscure analogies that do very little to actually clarify the situation. This must be what James Bond feels like upon faced with a ticking bomb which his enemy has, for reasons unknown, always left on timer, as opposed to say, triggered to explode when he gives the signal or presses a button (which would be a lot more convenient all things considered, all things in this case including a somehow invincible, invulnerable, seductive spy whose face and character changes every once in a while, each new Bond displaying a new and completely different set of features and characteristics apart from the one resoundingly common link that they are all very very white and posh). The ultimate question, the blue wire or the red wire? Should I just give up now and post an incomplete piece or post several seconds after midnight, thereby failing my daily quota.
 For one thing I'm yet to even think of a proper topic for this post let alone a punchline. Hmm... Ah, the punchline is that I have in fact used the idea of not having a topic as a topic? How's that? ...A little weak perhaps?

Musical Musings

 Last night at my school there was a small charity musical festival of sorts titled TILT where several bands composed of students of the school stood on stage to sing and play various instruments. A festival I did not attend due to several reasons. Firstly the tickets cost five pounds, with five pounds I could buy myself a decent meal at KFC or Subway or maybe even a medium portion of fries at Caffe Rouge. Secondly I was quite convinced that if I were to buy some fries to sit silently crying and eating, all alone in a dark corner of Caffe Rouge, I would still have a better Friday night out than those attending TILT due to the fact that the latter had been organized by a certain member of staff called Miss Peel.

 In order to get an accurate mental image of Miss Peel, first imagine an ordinary woman. Then throw her into a cave in which dwells a horrendous dragon. The dragon then hungrily devours the woman's face, scarring her both physically and psychologically thus creating a pitiful twisted miserable human being. Miss Peel is that dragon. She can often be seen hungrily patrolling the school grounds, blond hair flowing behind her like beer regurgitated out of a car. Her features covered by a bullet proof layer of fake tan which nonetheless fails to conceal the crater like frown lines on her face, bearing greater resemblance to battle scars than wrinkles.

 Because TILT had been coordinated by this monstrosity, I had been under the illusion that it would inevitably be horrendous seeing as the only thing remotely close to a party Miss Peel had ever been present at was, in all probability, her own summoning where she stood in the middle of a five pointed star as the Satanists who had brought her forth from the deepest depths of hell chanted and danced around her. However contrary to my expectations, Facebook news feed has been reliably informing me that TILT was a resounding success (as well as reliably informing me that if I Facebook like a particular photo of Jesus I will more than definitely go to heaven whereas if I were to ignore it, eternal damnation awaits) with accompanying photographs.

 I have never been a musical type of human being. My taste in music does not range much beyond anime opening music (beyond this geeky borderline lies the terrifying vastness of popular culture, a place in which many a strange and horrifying beings dwell, giving out numbers and getting down on Fridays) and my only instrumental experience is the six months worth of utterly futile and fruitless violin lessons I took at the age of ten. Nonetheless even I had to concede that the photographs of people with guitars strapped across their chest, standing heroically on stage, smoke swirling around them and the flame like orange light to their back, were impressive.

 Thus, for the first time in more than six years, I have begun to consider learning an instrument. However though I am blessed with the natural ability to annoy or torment, as well as the talent to ably articulate or compose aimless articles abound with artistic alliteration and draw decidedly disturbing doodles, I was not born with a single musically able bone in my body. So unmusical am I that if I were, having been killed by some ancient slightly arts-and-crafts type tribe, made into drums I would still create a horrible non rhythmic cacophony, unpleasant to listen to (which in this case, I suppose, would be some sort of petty revenge).

 Tone is to me what ghosts are to most people. Something to be vaguely believed in and feared but never actually detected by the senses. I can keep rhythm in the same way football players can keep out of the paper. I am, also, by my own admission an extremely lazy individual, such a picture perfect representation of Sloth that I would volunteer myself for a portrait if a new illustrated bible were to be printed in future. Hence its surprising I've kept up this blog so far, let alone start to learn a musical instrument. Thus, when all these factors have been considered I am left with only a number of options: a)The triangle b)The rectangle c)The pentagon d)The hexagon e)The heptagon f)The octagon g)The nonagon and h)The decagon.

 Though it does occur to me that (like the protagonist of some moralistic novel in which, for example, the main character starts off motivated by good will and attempting to gain money with which to hep the poor starts a lucrative business manufacturing carpets. Then over time is seduced by the allure of money its self and having run out of good carpet making material begins to round up and skin the poor to create cheap rugs to sell. Finally, having seen some suitably moving scene, the protagonist realizes that he, in compromising and pursuing alternative goals, had lost the main purpose of his deep moral journey.) I have wandered off some way from the original purpose of learning a musical instrument which was to look impressive in photographs. And while polygonic instruments are great in their own special way, one thing they are not is impressive when on stage.

 A triangle simply cannot compare to the sheer magnitude of having a large guitar hung casually across your front like some large artistic shoulder bag packed full of awesome. Perhaps size is the issue here? Perhaps if there were some instrument, like a triangle but thicker and a meter in length, it would have the same gravitas as a guitar whilst maintaining the easy playability of a polygonic instrument. Sadly, at this moment in time, no such instrument exists. So until the day such a contraption arrives to revolutionize the musical scene, I shall regrettably be forced to postpone taking up an instrument.

Entrepreneurial Spirit

 The dark robed man glided slowly across the dead earth of the graveyard, its soft soil transformed into a quagmire by the pelting rain. He stood in front of one grave stone scarred with the words "Entrepreneurial Confidence". Lifting a thick leather bound book before him as if preaching to an invisible congregation, he began to utter a series of deep ominous words with a rhythmic droning rumble that would drill fear and uncertainty into the mind of any who heard it. His tone, the speed of his immaculate pronunciation and the volume of his voice simultaneously rose as he snapped the book shut, raising both hands violently skywards to be blindingly silhouetted by the sudden and vibrant flash of lightening. A moment of silence punctuated the scene, then a slow trembling shudder ran through the ground, gently at first, like a colossal beast shaking its self awake from slumber. As the quake reached its climax, the ground before the gravestone cracked then, after a moments pause, exploded upwards. Fragmented soil flew through the rain, pelting the old necromancer with a mixture of mud and water but he continued to smile, transfixed by the figure climbing out of the fractured wooden coffin.
 ...That was not how my entrepreneurial confidence was resurrected today but in terms of the dramatic mental impact it had on me it could be comparable to the slightly over extended and tenuous metaphor above. For my confidence as an entrepreneur has been dead a fair few years, ever since a school competition titled the Social Entrepreneurs Project (SEP for short, I do feel its shame they didn't title it the Entrepreneurial Social Project in which case the abbreviation would be ESP giving the misguiding but nonetheless interesting suggestion that it is some program associated with psychics) whose basic aim was to raise money to help children in Africa.
 A friend, called Faisal, and I decided we would buy sweets cheaply then resell them at school at a far higher price. Since Faisal lived in New Malden (despite being Pakistani, or more importantly, not Korean which meant he was treated as an immigrant within a community of immigrants, like some sort of Matryoshka doll of mild racism) we decided to buy a vast quantity of penguin bars (about thirty pounds worth of confectionery in total) from his local Iceland as well as some Japanese sweets called "Haichu" (A chewy fruit flavored sweet which gave you happiness and diabetes in equal quantities). Our ploy went a little like this, "The people at school shall all become addicted to Haichu and penguin bars, relentlessly eating and buying, trapped in a vicious cycle of sweet consumption and craving (cue evil laughter)"
 However, as if to prove there is some karmic justice within the world, both Faisal and I promptly became addicted on our own stock of foods (I on Penguin bars, he on Haichu). Like hunters who had been ensnared and captured by the sheer excellence of their very own traps we had finished off our entire supply of teeth torturing treats by the end of our first day of business. However we still had our pride as businessmen, and as true vendors we could not allow our customers to not pay, even if the customers were ourselves. Hence we paid for our ridiculously over priced confectionery (while being bitterly aware that it was over priced and even more bitterly knowing that we had already paid for it once) thereby successfully making a profit on paper but in reality making huge losses in terms of money, dignity and confidence in enterprise. At the end of a tough week of being social entrepreneurs we had actually gained nothing apart blood sugar levels and weight.
 From that crushing tragic defeat forth, I had never thought I could ever be a, entrepreneur. It was one potential aspiration which had become less of a career path and more of a 120 mile per hour career motorway utilized exclusively by trucks, the middle of which I would have to walk, trying to deftly dodge the metaphorical vehicular executioners lest I be splattered thinner than my chances of becoming a successful businessman. However, on this very day, my eyes were opened, then kept open with a contraption of metal wires as I was metaphorically put through the entire Clockwork Orange experience (though generally more positive and pleasant) to a whole new possibility of career for me.
 Today, at my school, it was Make A Difference Day, abbreviated with self deprecating humor to MADD. A day dedicated to charities of all kinds (ranging from childrens' hospices to cancer research to helping infants in Africa) where the school grounds are littered with sweet vendors, coconut shies, sport competitions, buskers and various other fairground style activities all raising money for charities. The day also gave permission for students to come in dressed not in the usual suits but in their own home clothes. So there I was, dressed in my lavender colored shirt, violet trousers, purple tie, jet black top hat and billowing dark coat, feeling thoroughly misanthropic as self righteous charitable souls walked around smearing their goodwill in people's faces.
 Then as I was harassing a group of buskers by tunelessly joining in on their singing, one of the people running MADD approached me with a tray full of sandwiches in their hand. Apparently there was an excess of sandwiches and she, along with several other tray bearing laborers, were now attempting to rid themselves of the sandwiches by distributing them for free. I, like other great business leaders before me such as Lord Sugar or Steve Jobs, in one inspired entrepreneurial move exclaimed "I'll take the whole tray!"
 Quickly I began to run amongst the crowds, attempting to sell my sandwich to passers by for just twenty pence while also eating some of them myself as I hadn't had lunch. However, despite the fact I did everything to make them seem appealing (verbally promoting them, rotating the tray seductively, threatening potential customers with violence) none of them seemed to sell, perhaps due to the recent economic downturn or the fact that the sandwiches were getting drier and drier by the second, losing what little appeal they originally had or the fact that there were other people going around giving out identical sandwiches for free.
 Very soon my legs were tired from running, my voice hoarse from shouting, my heart heavy with despair and my stomach heavy with sandwiches yet I hadn't sold a single sandwich. I sank to my knees, my will (like a "shatterproof" ruler in the forceful hands of a curious child) on the verge of breaking, was I to lose at this first hurdle on the road to business success? To be defeated like other business tycoons before me? Defeated like Murdoch by the Leveson Inquiry, Woolworths by the economic downturn and Steve Jobs by cancer?
 As I sank deeper and deeper into emotional submission a voice called out to me, a lifeline cast from the banks of the river, a blond, stupid and gullible lifeline called Hugo Speak (An individual whose bar of chocolate I once snatched and ate after he said "I wonder what it would be like to live in a lawless society") and his clueless words echoed in my grateful eardrums like the tinkling of gold coins on a marble floor "Oh, how much are those sandwiches?"
 "Twenty pence," I replied cautiously, hardly believing my luck but grasping onto it with all my strength nonetheless.
 Now, the brilliance of a charity event where many things are being sold for charity is that people instantly assume any goods being sold are being sold for charity. Example one, Hugo Speak spoke to say, "Well I'll pay fifty pence since its my donation." Donation to my wallet, I thought but did not utter. "Oh my money's in my bag" he announced and began to slowly unzip his bag. However even as he did so, I realized there was someone walking behind him, a tray full of sandwiches identical to the ones I had in every respect except his were completely free. If he were to call out to Hugo at this moment the entire deal would be blown. Silently willing the blond haired idiot of a customer to hurry up and take out his money, I watched my competition edge ever closer, sweat on my brow, the tray shaking in my nervous hands.
 Then, with a sudden clink of a fifty pence coin and the swift selection of two triangular sections of bread, the transaction was complete. I had a fifty pence profit and my customer had a dry tasteless sandwich he could have had for free. Of course he had the benefit of having the emotional satisfaction of thinking he had given to charity, a benefit I destroyed with a few smug words. I proceeded to quickly flee across the school with a very disgruntled customer behind me, a tray of sandwich in my arms, a profit in my pocket and a bright future in business ahead of me.

The Badminton Balance

 Every Wednesday, due to my school's policy of forcing some form of exercise on pupils whether they enjoy physically strenuous and largely pointless activities or not (like a slightly less potentially fatal version of conscription), I play badminton. Now, reader's who thought badminton to be entirely an issue of swinging the racket at roughly the right time in the right direction at the right speed and angle, may be surprised to learn that the most important aspect of playing badminton in my case is in fact, balance.
 Badminton is governed by balance: the balance of the weight and leverage of the racket in your hand, the balance of your body as you move across the court and most vitally, the balance between doing too little exercise to be criticized by the teacher and doing too much exercise to unknowingly join the rank of the "Lads" (A collection of muscle obsessed base humans, remarkable living fossil of what I imagine caveman society may have been like). For badminton is a slacker's sport, the last resort, the final safe haven, the one remaining defensive fort, the single hole in the net for those of a non-sporty persuasion and succeeding as a slacker presents its own set of challenges.
 First rule of slacking is that you never talk about slacking. Slack too obviously and you are placed on the teacher's warning list which entails coaching sessions with the teacher present, eyes peeled and glaring (A Hawk-Eye specifically there to judge whether your effort is "IN" or "OUT"), beside you. Hence you must always appear to be keenly playing badminton when the teacher is near. In short, to succeed you must become an agent; feign loyalty to sports but in your heart allow the passionate, though slightly damp and tired, fire of the slacker to burn. However be very cautious of accidentally succumbing to the enemy ideal, start genuinely taking badminton too seriously and the path to becoming a "Lad" opens ( A slippery downward path lubricated with vaseline, sweat and protein shakes).
 Become too good a deceptive agent and gradually what started as a feigned interest in badminton blossoms into genuine love of exercise. What was only a tiresome itch in your muscles becomes pain to be enjoyed. What was a friendly match played merely to humor the teachers in charge becomes a competitive battle to prove your powers as a man are superior to that of your opponent. Soon before you know it you'll be pumping weights in a gym sexually aroused by the very prospect of developing muscles but only capable of a one inch erection due to all the steroids you've taken.
 Therefore the path of the slacker is a hard one, perhaps the hardest. Working enough but ensuring not to work too much. Playing some sports but forever resisting the urge "to go gym" (That is the correct "Lad" term for going to a gym. As Underling Sheep succinctly put it, "There is too much muscular density in that sentence for any prepositions"). We slackers must find the Middle way, we are the Buddhists of exercise preaching the message of love, peace and always having at least ten minutes of sitting down after a minute of any remotely physically strenuous activity.

The Case of the Anonymous Riddler

 It has been a few weeks since the sixth form term began and though initially the invasion of girls into what was previously an all male educational institution was seen with hostility and suspicion (like the landing of early pioneers in tribal lands), thanks partially to the continuous efforts by the school staff to valiantly yet awkwardly promote "Mingling" through school barbecues and tea parties, the gender barrier (which first seemed as damningly sinister as the Berlin wall and as colossal as the Great Wall of China) has been breached and so far (unlike early pioneers in tribal lands) none of the females have stolen our land, extorted our wealth, destroyed our culture or brought disease (though that may be left as an unpleasant surprise to discover when inter gender relations within sixth form penetrate new depths).

 I for one have acted as a friendly native welcoming these strangers into our lands and promptly integrating them into my personal culture (grown in a Petri dish labeled "weird and wonderful")by near forcibly converting them to my Detective Agency. With the exception of a few for whom I am yet to think of an underling name, such as Olivia (an extreme Lord of the Rings fan with whom I discuss youtube and Tolkien's work, often together), most new girls I have conversed with have gone through the initiation process of being given an underling name (by which they will be referred to for the rest of eternity... if I were to find some way to live eternally).

 Though some still refuse to accept their fate, such as Underling Salmon (an often bitingly sarcastic character, occasionally as cold in attitude as her native Iceland) most have passively joined the Detective Agency, such as Underling Spirit (A tall individual who gives off an atmosphere of gentle tranquility. Of a generous nature, so determined by myself as I borrow her Paperchase rubber every mathematics class) while some have even supported it enthusiastically, for example Underling Solo (An orange haired mistress of memory who appears to be able to remember even the slightest of personal details if mentioned once) and Underling Swirl (A french girl often adopting the appearance and attitude of a six year old with occasional glimpses of someone five times as mature).

 The incident, began last Saturday, when, with a sinister buzz heralding the arrival of a new message sent to my phone via the invisible cybernetic strings which seems to bind most of developed society today, I received a text message from an unknown number. Within the round friendly corn colored speech bubble were simply written in a collection of pitch black pixels "Only you can hear this". Ignoring the fact that it made little sense to claim anyone, not even me as suggested by the message, could actually "hear" a text, the message was quite obviously sinister (Positioned, in terms of the sinister scale, two notches above the dark and stormy night in a crumbling castle but three notches below the trench coated figure in a night time alley way).

 When I demanded the villainous sender's fiendish identity, several devious texts malevolently came flying my way, three enigmatic words:

"Ursus major perro"

 and two suspiciously traditional riddles, in which, the malicious sender claimed, menacingly, that his/her devilish identity could be discovered. Seeing this as a challenge to my not inconsiderable skills as a detective, I set to work.

 From the fact that it was an unknown number I swiftly worked out that, seeing as I updated my list of contacts roughly two weeks ago, the number could only belong to someone I had met recently or someone I had known for a while but not bothered to add to my contacts in which case they would be thoroughly dull people worthy of being disregarded by myself and thus not the sort of people to send me interesting messages, from this I immediately narrowed my list of suspects down to the new girls at the school. From there began the challenge.
 The first riddle went thus:

"A box without hinges, key or lid

 yet inside golden treasure is hid."

 After a moments thought I correctly deduced that the answer was "egg".

 However seeing as this proved no help at all, I progressed to the second riddle.

"Alive without breath,

 As cold as death;

Never thirsty; Ever drinking

All in mail never clinking"

 After a slightly longer period of thought I deduced the answer to the riddle was "fish". From there I considered all of my Underlings and the possible meaning of these questions and their respective yet equally mysterious answers. Soon I reached one conclusion, an Underling mildly malicious enough to attempt to harass me in this way whose number I didn't have and who was associated with "fish"... Underling Salmon. It seemed to make sense, the pieces falling into place, however I couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something more to these riddles. Ignoring this I continued with my hypothesis, perhaps "ursus major perro" was a constellation found in the general direction of Iceland?

 With this thought in mind I contacted Underling Butler (A snide but intelligent underling with a wide knowledge of astronomy and zoology who surrounds himself with too many books and too few friends). "Yes, what is it?" he questioned irritably upon answering the phone, his posh accent and upper class pronunciation galloping through the mobile phone connection like a polo pony through the town center.

 "It is I, Veritable Galanthus," I announced as per usual, "great detective and your immediate superior. I have a request, underling Butler."

 "What is it O' Great detective?" he muttered sarcastically, a mixture of mocking amusement clinging to his tone like stench of garlic to breath, the sort of insulting condescending manner of speech that will cause problems for him later in life. Ignoring his attitude, I gave the rough context, including the precise nature of the riddles and proceeded to inquire about the words "Ursus Major Perro".

 "I'm terribly sorry," he responded after a moment of thought, using the malignant tone of voice that has so permeated the core of his very being that nothing short of surgery could remove it, "But I can't say I know what that means beyond that it has something to do with a great bear. Whatever it is its not a constellation."

 "Well, you're useless," I concluded, "Farewell."

 "Oh," exclaimed Underling Butler a moment before I hung up, "the riddles you mentioned are both from the Hobbit though."

 As those words rang in my ear, the metaphorical penny began its slow earth bound journey, plummeting through many meters of air as cognitive gravity gradually but inevitably took hold. Then after a minute of silent vertical descent, it hit the ground of understanding with a reverberating metallic clink of comprehension. "Olivia!" I shouted.

 I later learned from her that "Ursus Major Perro" or "great bear perro" was a reference to the surreal animated youtube video, "Mr Ando of the Woods" which she showed me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqzt3T4R38c

Perhaps Underling Sinister would be a good name...

Popular

 I've recently noticed that the current trend in advertisement seems to be competition. The most prominent example is that of chocolates. Chocolate companies now emphatically announce several separate flavors of the same brand ranging from caramel to orange to nuts to human despair to broken dreams and then insist people vote and compete against each other in order to prove the superiority of their taste buds over other like minded chocolate connoisseurs. Though essentially even if you were to vote for your favorite flavor of a chocolate and successfully confirmed that you in fact have the same preference of chocolate flavoring as a vast proportion of other chocolate consumers/future diabetics, you still are in actuality a loser since all you've done is basically had a race within a hamster wheel or in this case the cooperate publicity wheel. So everyone, except the chocolate company, loses (Or if you're of an extremely positive mindset, everyone wins since there really is not a jot of difference between the victorious and the defeated in their gullibility, cooperate usability and potential for obesity).
 This competition of flavors within individual chocolate brands is its self a part of competition between separate chocolate brands, each trying to get more publicity and sell more products than the other, a competition within a competition. Even this competition is then swallowed by the larger competition between chocolate and other luxury foods typically consumed by children and lonely adults such as ice cream or cake, thereby creating a competition within a competition within a competition.
 If this trend of creating a marketing battle within another marketing battle continues, much like in a medieval ten bird roast, the subject of each battle would naturally become smaller and smaller. Perhaps in the future there will be voting polls to decide which of the many unhealthy ingredients used to create a certain chocolate flavor within a certain chocolate brand is the nation's favorite. Eventually there maybe surveys to discover which particular electron attached to which certain atom within a chosen molecule composing what preferred chemical contained in an individual ingredient used to create a select flavor within a certain chocolate brand within the large category of various sugary foodstuffs labeled as chocolates within the category of non-essential delicacies labeled as sweets, is the people's choice.
 Though I find this culture of competition irritating I have to admit that it seems effective so perhaps I should use it myself. I have recently noticed that other people may have more friends than I do, in short I need to become more socially popular. Hence, adopting the policy of competition I shall now develop schizophrenia/multiple personality disorder and those people around me could decide which of my changeable personalities they like best.
  However, as people see the social success inducing effects of a serious mental disorder, multiple personality disorder will catch on as a trend. Then very soon everyone will be going around with several different minds hidden within them, each of whom may have a different preference in the electron of an atom of a molecule of a chemical of an ingredient of a flavor of a chocolate of a brand. There would then have to be a democratic vote to decide which personality is most fit to vote before any one individual could even vote for their favorite electron. Inevitably the world will become a dark and dull place of near infinite voting where one must vote for one thing to vote for another thing to be able to vote for a further more important thing, resulting in infinite reams of paper work and long winded government election processes causing indecision, fracture and general anarchy.
 In conclusion, these chocolate flavor votes will more than likely result in the apocalypse. Hence we must start a campaign against voting. Now there are several campaign methods I have in mind but seeing as I'm indecisive about which to choose we can decide through a democratic survey of popularity.

Giving Back

 I am currently taking part (not actually doing much but its the taking part that counts) in a patronizing (in the same sort of condescending and judgmental atmosphere of grandparents attempting to be understanding but nonetheless making their lack of understanding blindly obvious in the process by saying things like "Oh darling, you're a lovely girl, it doesn't matter if you didn't do well at school so long as you can cook" or "You're friend forgot to wipe his shoes when he came in but it's fine, its not his fault he's uncultured, I expect they don't teach their children manners in India") government funded program entitled "The Challenge" which aims to get young people (whom they presume have no morals, intelligence, understanding of the world or social life) to "give back to the community" by doing some sort of community service.
 I will make it clear that I don't have a problem with community service in general and think its great (so long as I'm not actually the one doing it) but what I do have a problem with, what causes me a considerable amount of vexation, is the phrase "giving back" to the community.
 Now, the Community has never done anything for me. If the Community were a parent and I its child, I would have been taken away by social services (or possibly not considering the recent incompetence of the social care system) due to gross negligence long ago. The positive publicity of "the community" seems to be that its an integral part of your life, functioning almost as a family member but as family members go, the community has had much of a presence in my life as an aborted older brother. In summary, I owe very little if not absolutely nothing to the community.
 What's more it seems that people think you somehow owe more to the community if you or your family have more money, which when considered logically makes very little sense. My family is relatively well off (and that's relative to the extremely poor economical situation at present) and I'm relatively fortunate (That's relative to those who were born into Uk families with less money/income and not relative to, say, children in Africa in which case everyone in the Uk would be relatively very fortunate which is a positive way of looking at it in a sense. On that note let us all have a moment of silence for those African children for allowing us the privilege of thinking "Thank god that's not me" every time we see a, no longer shocking, "shocking" image of some dying child which provokes less emotion in us than the death of some rich singer somewhere over dosing themselves on recreational drugs) but there's no reason why that means we owe anymore to the community than anyone else.
 We all reap what we sow and the community directly plays very little part in allowing someone to make money (unless monetary transactions by each individual member of the so called community is seen as the work of the community collectively) so I cannot see how the rich need to "give back" anything to the community. If anything the rich are more likely to have private health clinics that do not rely on the community and attend private schools (as do I) that do not rely on the community, as well as doing the community a favor every now and then by contributing to the local economy.
 I am aware that the above paragraph sounded like the height of snobbery and conservatism so would like to make clear that I do like the welfare system and would support a Robbin hood tax (taxing more from the rich than the poor), however I just object to the incorrect, almost deliberately guilt inducing, phrase "giving back" to the community.
 When I said that to those that ran "the challenge" their first response was "well, have you ever used the NHS?", the answer to which is "yes, yes I have once or twice." However my family pays for that enough in taxes and if the use of the NHS is relative to the amount of community service you should do then there are clearly people who use the NHS more but do nothing to "give back" to the community (those in the NHS permanent or intensive care unit for example... possibly because they're too ill to do anything).
 The second response, in light of my "reap what you sow" remark was that I, as a teenager, had sown nothing of my own and have done nothing to deserve being in the privileged position I find myself in. That is very true, its complete chance that I happened to be born to the family I was born to and I'm very fortunate to have done so considering the statistics. However, what that has to do with the community is something I cannot fathom. Why would my extreme turn of good luck require me to "give back" to the community, what on earth makes me indebted to the community for having very good fortune?
 Do "The community" have powers far beyond my understanding that allow them to control who gets born where? Is that the secret task of the local council, the elected members sitting around a table saying "Yes, I think we'll allow him to be born into a nice middle class family because he seems like a good lad ...though at this point there really is no way of discerning one individual from another since unborn foetuses typically tend not to have much of a personality" In which case I shall change all life dreams I've ever held and strive to become a member of the local council for the sheer power of it all.
 However since I highly doubt that is the case, it seems I owe less to the community than I owe to fate and destiny. And if the very little that I owe to the community (possibly in the form of two public library books which have been left untouched in my bookshelf for the last few months, accumulating dust and library fines faster than a cheetah in a car... that analogy possibly falling down due to the fact cheetah's don't tend to have motoring skills) must be "given back" in the form of weekends spent gardening or litter picking (as I was yesterday. Failing to plant daffodil bulbs in a far from local garden which I had never previously been to and picking up pieces of litter which felt more of a disservice than an aid to the community because their garish plastic vibrancy detracted a little from the bleak dullness of the park. All the while wearing skin tight rubber gloves, the type worn by hospital workers and rapists, which makes any job seem more criminal and perverse. The usage of those gloves could transform "baker" to "dough fondler", "barbar" to "hair mollestor" and "Nursery worker" to "Vanessa George") then what terrible price must I pay for the great debts I owe to destiny and fate. How many daffodils do I have to plant to "give back" to destiny and fate? Is that even the right way of going about it?
 Perhaps I should just start a cult worshipping destiny and fate, sacrificing a goat to their names every weekend followed by ritual dancing, spiritual humming and general mystical prancing about.

To Start On an Epiphany

I have before this time attempted to start and maintain several different blogs but this evening, at precisely around (a combination of words which seem to contradict each other but nonetheless capture my desire for it to have been precisely midnight for my own personal love of dramatics in real life and the unavoidable fact that I do in fact have no way of knowing when exactly the idea appeared in my head as I simply am not the sort of person to regularly look at the time) midnight I had something of an epiphany. Or perhaps epiphany is too large a term for this instance, rather like over wrapping a present with several layers of garishly colorful wrapping paper when the present its self is something small, relatively cheap, appropriately cheerful but not particularly significant to the recipient of the gift, a "cute" object from "Paperchase" for example.
 I have recently gotten into borrowing a "Paperchase" rubber from one of my female underlings, one Underling Spirit, who is in my maths class and although I used to sneer at the pointless brand of "cute" stationary in favor of the far more functional, cheap, unisex and less fashionable WHSmith brand; I must admit I have recently grown fond of the little green rectangular semi-transparent block of broken dreams or whatever rubbers are made of (possibly rubber unless the term "rubber" comes from the act of using the object to rub something and not the material out of which it is made in which case the name "rubber" is terribly deceptive and must be changed immediately)with the name "paperchase" scrawled neatly, almost seductively, in nice curled sloping writing on its melon coloured surface. I may go and buy one of my own Paperchase rubbers in the near future but considering my dignity as a man is always skimming the surface of utter oblivion like some fish-hunting sea bird cruising a centimeter above the dark oceans of extreme male femininity, I suspect going into a Paperchase store may result in me losing all rights to owning a protrusive reproductive organ.
 Anyhow back to the main point, epiphany or not, I came to the realization that so far in my attempts at being a blogger I had gotten everything completely and utterly wrong, I had gotten lost in the maze of the very fundamental concept of blogging to such an extent that it was no longer a matter of turning right when I was meant to be going left but rather continuing to plough head first into the floor of the metaphorical maze.
 I simply had not realized that blogging was all about presenting ones self and ones own experiences in a genuine fashion.
 In my previous blogging attempts I had employed well thought out, plotted and planned methods to attempt to be more amusing than I actually am or to purposefully over dramatize certain events for the benefit of an utterly non existent readership. In doing so my blog had lost all character and voice, essentially becoming a multi-coloured soulless empty husk of a chunk of text. I had lost sight of the fact that people usually observe blogs to see into the lives and minds of other people, like looking into a neighbor's garden. What I had essentially done with my cybernetic mental gardens was, instead of growing plants of my own personal preference in the garden as I should have, conducting thorough research into what my neighbor's botanical preferences were then proceeding to stick lots of garish plastic copies of said plants. Thereby depriving my blog of all life or interest (where the garden analogy falls down is that an entirely plastic garden would, in its own slightly creepy way, be quite fascinating whereas my previous blog attempts had absolutely no such charisma or, consequently, readership).
 Hence I intend to keep this blog, I have no idea how long it will last but I have a good feeling about this one (The primary reason being that I have just enjoyed myself immensely in the last thirty minutes or so of worthless egocentric typing) so i would be honored if anyone would care to stick around for the ride (and as a word of warning to avoid disappointment, the term "ride" gives suggestion of an element of speed and excitement whereas, as you may have guessed from this long introduction, my rides are quite slow and full of utterly irrelevant detours). All aboard.