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!

24

 The number twenty four. First discovered after the number twenty three, the history of the number twenty four is connected deeply with our own. For example the Edinburgh Municipal Fire Brigade was founded in the year 1824 and a failed Soviet coup occurred in the year 1924. Even more strikingly, by the march of the year 2024 I will be 28 and if this wasn't enough evidence to back up the importance of the number 24, those born 4 years after myself will be 24 years old in the year 2024. Coincidence? I think not.

 However if it is not sheer chance then who has engineered it this way? Perhaps there exists some secret society, a covenant of 24 followers. A devout cult whose members pray to 24 24/7. And this secret organization has, today, spun me into their conspiratorial web for this is my 24th blog post! (I usually detest exclamation marks, trying to force their enthusiasm or surprise or excitement on the reader without any respect to his/her actual emotional response but today I'm making an exception on the account of it being a celebratory occasion!)

 Considering my long winded verbose writing style, these 24 blog post behemoths combined can probably create a good sized book to be sold in WHSmith alongside all the other deeply meaningless celebrity autobiographies (and mine would have the advantage in the celebrity autobiography market of actually being written by me, though this may be slightly outweighed by the disadvantage of myself not actually being a celebrity).

 

 

 Nonetheless, despite my best efforts, I still appear to have minimum readership. Zero followers. Twenty four posts, god knows how many words (or he would know if he existed which is a really rather murky grey area at the moment) and yet, zero followers. What? How? Why? Who? Where? When? With whom? These are questions I ask myself when I see my follower count (although the last four questions were possibly irrelevant but I ask them anyway because I am a thorough individual) which is still a colon followed by a solid stubborn zero, a combination of symbol and number that, incidentally, perfectly mirrors my shocked expression every time :0

 I have more than once discussed this issue with my underlings and the response I got was either that I should include more cute cats or cut down the words I waste in rambling. Ignoring the former as I refuse to bow down to the vulgarly low standards of internet popularity, the latter is a difficult suggestion. This is largely due to the fact that my posts are composed of nothing but rambling, cutting away the rambling would leave absolutely nothing behind which, might precisely be the source of all my problems. Namely that my blog, like a broken camera or a child with ADHD, has very little focus.

 With a clear focus comes a target audience, with a target audience comes an audience and with an audience comes readership. Therefore what I need is some subject for me to concentrate all my posts on. However I have no job, nothing of interest happens with any reliable regularity in my school or family life and I have no interests that could feasibly involve a blog such as botany or animal experimentation. One topic I could attempt to cover is some social injustice that enrages me, something I find absolutely unforgivable to the extent that I am willing to dedicate my blog to pursuing the injustice's demise. Like a knight fighting a terrible dragon, I could brandish my pen that is mightier than the sword and write aggressive campaigns against the said injustice.

  

 

 ....There is however, one problem. I really have no social injustice I would willingly dedicate this blog to. I am the sort of horribly cynical and unhelpful human being who, whilst being perfectly aware of the fact that there are a multitude of things wrong with the world as a whole, is too unempathic and lazy to feel even the slightest need to do anything. The only things that passionately enrage me are petty day to day issues such as casual Americanizations, blatant marketing, irritating adverts and mild illogical phrasings and ideas. I could make them the main focus of my blog but as social injustices go, they are less of a tremendous dragon to be fought by a courageous knight and more of an irritating worm to be cruelly crushed by some malicious child. There's really only so much I can milk from that petty topic before the metaphorical udders begin to bleed.

 Then, as it lies bleeding to death at my feet, where would I be? On the run from the metaphorical RSPCA for needless cruelty to a topic. Unplanned and frantically shoddy writings mindlessly fleeing from the pursuit of the police and the angry animal rights activists (who are exactly the sort of people capable of maintaining a blog about social outrage, spewing out a post per day on the cruelty of eating eggs or whatnot). Soon, apprehended and arrested, I will be forced to stand in a court of law, surrounded by stern animal lovers and bestial romantics.

 "And why, Mr Galanthus, did you milk the topic until it bled?" asks the judge sternly, glaring coldly at me from his majestically high oak podium.

 "For internet popularity," I mumble ashamedly, hurriedly adding, "your honour."

 "So you pushed a meager topic far beyond its capabilities for blog readership you say?" he affirms accusingly, an accusation in response to which I can only give a silent downcast nod, "Then," he announces, "you are indeed guilty."

 I sigh shakily and feel tears spill out from the corners of my eyes, my entire body sagging with depression as I await my sentence. The Judge continues, "Guilty of losing your way," an unexpected warmth enters the Judge's deep booming voice echoing around the courtroom, "Why do you need to gain popularity and readership? Why can you not do it just for your own creative entertainment? I for one, preferred it when you were just writing your pointless and unfocused, but nonetheless honest thoughts" With that he smiles slightly, a paternal reassuring grin and before I know it, I'm out of my own defendant box, legs propelling me towards my savior.

  Which is why I have decided that despite not having any readership, I will keep my writing style and subject entirely unchanged.

 I shall leave my blog completely unfocused, deeply shallow and thoroughly pointless. I will not cut down my long winded meaningless rambling, I will not display any pitiful pretence of social outrage and I will not bow down to compromise for the masses. It may be a lonely road but at least it's my road.

Doughnut

 I'm certain most people have had the experience of a disappointing doughnut. Obviously I've just made the gross assumption that whoever, out of my very meager readership, is currently unenthusiastically running their bored eyes through this block of text, lives in an area of the world where doughnuts are readily accessible. That is to say, you, the reader, are not at present living in some impoverished mud hut situated within a third world country, clicking the computer mouse with starved twig like fingers and sitting on a chair more three dimensional than you are. However if that is the case, I would recommend that you sell the computer and use the money to buy yourself food, get something nice like some doughnuts. I'm honored that reading my blog is that important to you but would suggest that staying alive is perhaps ever so slightly more vital.
 To the other relatively non-impoverished majority of readers, I call upon you to recall a disappointing doughnut. In particular, a jam doughnut. It may be difficult, it may be painful, but try to remember that traumatic moment you felt thoroughly emotionally let down by a piece of confectionery. Close your eyes, let your mind wander back. In fact open your eyes since the act of closing your eyes must have prevented you from reading the proceeding instructions unless your eyelids are somehow translucent like the flesh of a jellyfish. Now, close one eye but keep the other eye open to read the instructions (unless you are the jellyfish man in which case your translucent eyelids allow you to see the instructions near perfectly without your eyes necessarily being open) then relax, think pleasant calming thoughts and allow your mind to drift back like a dead body down a river.
 You are a child again, your mind is pure, untainted and innocent. Words like "systematic", "infant" and "abuse" still hold no meaning for you and consequently you would be unable to accurately describe the games you play with your uncle when your parents are out, even if you wanted to. However that is not important at present, you must focus your mind on some doughnuts. Some round jam doughnuts which you assumed are packed full of sweet jam. No, not your uncle's two jam doughnuts, that is a different story for a different time, possibly involving a judge, jury and an anatomically accurate doll which you will be asked to point precisely at.
 Back to the jam doughnuts. Spherical balls of fried dough with a fine snow like sprinkling upon its golden coloured surface. You take one in your hand and bringing it to your mouth and imagining the delicious explosion of sugary flavor that will spread through your mouth as the jam breaks free of its floury confines, you bite down on it. Only to find that it tastes of nothing more than slightly sweet bread. You take a second bite, quickly followed by a desperate third, panicked and frantic like a mother looking for her lost child, you search in vain for the luxurious treasure trove of jam that was promised to you from the name "jam doughnut". Finally you find it, not a treasure trove, not a medium sized storage box, not even a shoe box but barely a scientific spatula full of jam.
 The unappealing globule of slightly sweet scarlet gel, the same colour and texture as congealed blood, lies sullenly, like some severely angst filled teenager sitting knees up to his chin, in a tiny corner of the doughnut. The same air of vague depression that is being emitted from the pathetic section of jam soon permeates your head, darkly filling the void left behind by the happy expectations which dissolved the moment you took your first hopeful bite. Feeling thoroughly let down by the supposed treat turned traitor, you cannot help but think to yourself, "Is that really it? After all that seemingly important build up, there's so little actual meaningful substance there!"
 That feeling, the sensation of surprise, betrayal and vague disappointment, is probably what most of my readership feel at the end of one of my long winded articles and it is more than likely the precise reason why I am yet to gain any followers.

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?

Procrastination

 The time is fast approaching midnight and it is Sunday evening. As such there is school tomorrow starting at eight thirty in the morning sharp and there is a 3 page history essay and a write up on a Shakespearean play due in tomorrow, both of which are as of yet looking resoundingly uncompleted.
 I am currently procrastinating in the same way that a man who has been pushed from the empire states building procrastinates the inevitable collision with the ground by flapping his arms and hoping the bingo wings he's acquired through many years of unhealthy eating will somehow catch the wind and allow him flight.
 I admit that procrastination is not the best way forward nor is it the best habit to have since it tends to manifest its self in moments of pressure and immanent danger where concentration and willpower as opposed to the desire to do anything but what you're meant to be doing, are necessary. It's true that no airplane has ever been saved by a pilot procrastinating the emergency flight procedure with the plane falling apart around him as the ever increasing emotional and air pressure take hold.
 However in other less potentially fatal circumstances, procrastination may prove its self the mother of invention (in which case the pressuring work load would be the brutally abusive and sadistic twisted father of invention). I am willing to bet serious money, in relativity to the total sum of my pitiful finances (so about five pounds and fifty seven pence) that if ever a time machine is invented, it will be invented by a procrastinator creating a machine out of the manic desire to travel back to that very morning so he could get started on the bloody 3 page history essay a few hours earlier than he actually did.
 I've just given it some thought (which also took some increasingly precious time. Time is currently going through a period of extreme deflation. I am pretty sure that if time is money then the time now is worth at least a hundred times more than the time this morning) and it seems that I'm yet unable to come up with a working time machine. Hence, with sixty five minutes to midnight and the prospect of getting up at six in the morning tomorrow. I shall now leave this place to start my history essay.

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.

Rabid Pet Hates

 With a strong determined beat of its abstract wings, the temporal rises into the heavens, soaring ever higher, swooping and ducking as it glides across the skies. Time has flown and it is already new born October, who like a baby is yet to dentally develop but will soon quickly do so and with it, the biting cold start its chilling attack.
 The leaves on the tree have shriveled and crumbled, slowly transforming from the smooth beauty of a fair young maiden to the wrinkled repulsiveness of an old man's ball sack. The elegant lushness of the green trees fading to be replaced by the smudge of orange and brown like the finger painting of an artistically untalented child with leprosy.

 Indeed the series are changing. The year has driven out of the warm safari of the summer series to travel down the darkening road of the series of autumn and very soon we shall enter the dark cold tunnel that is the series of winter. Yes, that's right, I did say "series of winter" and doesn't that feel unpleasant and perverse? Nonetheless if people are going to start replacing the term "series" with the word "season" then I don't see why I shouldn't do the opposite and see how they feel.
 The use of the term "season" when referring to a British television "series" is a pet hate of mine. A pet hate which often growls and strains on its leash while out on walks, very occasionally breaking through the metal bonds to pounce upon any stray Americanization of British Television, sharp toothed mouth violently frothing and aiming for the jugular.

 One such recent occasion was when I was walking towards the massive ugly square construction with a totalitarian atmosphere that constitutes the school dining hall with one Underling Sheep (An extremely normal individual, the picture perfect image of the default white middle class boy of average intelligence, wit, athletic capability and social ability) and Hunter Swift (A young lady whose life appears to be governed largely by bridge, botany and bi-curiosity. A fast shuffler, mild stalker and notable as the only female wearing a waist coat). We were discussing the unsatisfactory nature of the previous Doctor who episode in which the Pond's bid their farewell.
 "I mean there are so many ways to save them," I complained, listing briefly the many solutions to the problem of Amy and Rory being trapped in Manhattan that I, a mere Earthling of sixteen years, thought of within the first five minutes of the end of the episode. Solutions which somehow the several hundred year old Timelord had failed to find.
 "Yeah," agreed Hunter swift, a little way away, across the courtyard, stands the great hall upon whose towering face is embedded a clock. Its horological mechanisms ticking away restlessly, a merciless movement of cogs and gears, tick, tick, tick, tick, "I get the feeling they're going to be brought back in about five seasons." tic- Time stops.
 "Say that again," I mutter, clenching my fists. Closing my eyes as I grit my teeth. Underling Sheep, having heard one of my rants before, stops beside me, eyes fixed pleadingly on Hunter Swift to get it right the second time.
 "I get the feeling they're going to be brought back," she repeats, a tone of confusion entering her voice.
 "In?" I whisper, my blood pulsing through my veins.
 "In about five seasons?" Comes the wavering reply from a now thoroughly confused Hunter Swift. Underling Sheep lets out a despairing sigh, letting his eyes fall tiredly to the ground. A moment of silence. I click my knuckles and draw in a deep breath.
  "ITS SERIES NOT SEASON! FIVE SERIESES TIME! NOT FIVE SEASONS TIME! I GET THE FEELING THEY'RE GOING TO BE BROUGHT BACK IN FIVE SERIESES TIME!" I roar, voice bouncing off the walls of the Quad, several pupils pausing to look round.
 "Oh shut up!" wails Hunter Swift, "I can use season if I want!"
 "No," I demand, waving my arms in frustration "It is a British television show, it will therefore be referred to as series and not season!"
 "I'll do what I want," she retorts, voice volume almost matching mine, "Besides YOU MAKE WAY MORE ERRORS THAN I DO!"
 As I open my mouth to form some sort of retort, one boy in the year above walks by, stating as he goes, "It's FAR more, not WAY more. Far!" Disappearing through a door within the next moment, leaving us to stand speechless.

 PS. Hunter Swift later gleefully pointed out "series" is a plural term and hence the correct term was "five series time" not "five serieses". What a petty individual.