Sometimes there are moments when you just feel like doing a particular thing. Like when you get home after a hard day at work and you really crave a cup of tea or when you wake up first thing in the morning and experience a burning desire to have a nice refreshing shower. In my case, I have recently been feeling incessant urges to water board someone.
To those who think water boarding sounds like a form of leisure activity to be performed on some sunny remote island by tanned men and women in swimming suits, I would say that they are half right. It is a form of torture consisting of covering the victim's face with a piece of soaked cloth and pouring water onto it, thus giving the victim a perfect sensation of drowning, arguably the ultimate in sensory illusions (which makes it sound like some sort of Disney Land attraction). It has most recently made the news when it came to light that interrogators in Guantanamo Bay, a remote sunny island used to imprison a lot of tanned people, regularly used water boarding on the detainees. Whether the interrogators counted it as a leisure activity and whether the detainees were wearing swimsuits when it happened is yet an undisclosed mystery.
I wake up in the morning, sunlight crawling lazily into my window through the half open blinds (which I still treat with a mixture of suspicion and fear as I'm not entirely sure how to operate its complicated system of strings and thinly cut plastic boards yet) and walk somewhat unsteadily to my kitchen, sleep still blurring my vision. Upon arriving in the open plan culinary hub of our household, I lumber up to the sink and with a twist of the gleaming silver tap, fill a cup with cool water. As I lift the cup to drink, I ponder for a moment, looking at the glass container filled to the rim in potentially suffocating liquid, the evolution of technology from the simple well to the grand network of pipes and tunnels that now reside, spread like some aquatic web, beneath the metropolis.
Finishing my drink, I wipe my cup on the tea towel that, if soaked and placed over someone's horizontal face, could cause considerable discomfort and I briefly wonder about the intricate layers of fabric that have gone into making this simple every day tool. Scratching my itching head, I return to my bedroom whereupon my eyes fall on my school bag, within which, I know, resides a timetable that dictates that I should be arriving in my school within the next thirty minutes or be facing the consequences within the next thirty five. My mind then, bored of scuttling up this particular branch of thought, leaps nimbly onto an adjacent cognitive branch concerning the people I will surely meet through the school day. This branch then spreads out into several different twigs that can all collectively be labeled under the title, "people I know".
It is then that I feel a strong urge to water board. I really could not say why. Perhaps the cause is in some undetectable stress or irritation but I am no psychiatrist and if ordinary people like myself could easily detect the causes of irrational thoughts or desires then I'm sure that particular job would have been abolished as obsolete a long time ago. However, if I were to make a complete and random guess, a total stab in the pitch black darkness, a wild baseless assumption then it would be the fact that I hate at least sixty percent of the people I am associated with.
Acting as further cause of stress, presently at school there is a certain social reshuffle occurring. With the introduction of forty or so new, most of them female, students into what used to be an all boys school, what had been a concrete social hierarchy is currently shifting and merging. The injection of fresh blood into what was previously a stable system has acted as a catalyst for school politics, causing a chemical reaction as the result of which alliances and treaties are being written, unwritten and rewritten at the speed of light. A decisive moment of school history, when being considered a generally attractive human being or not is crucial in cementing ones social status for the next two years. In essence, whether you are subject of mockery or the mocker is as malleable as molten metal at present. However like molten metal, though it may be flexible now, it will harden and set in no time. Allowing those at the top to stay at the top and causing those trapped within the lower social echelons to be imprisoned there forever.
Therefore, taking this as a revolutionary opportunity, many of those I have long since despised and mocked have begun their ascent. With it they have altered their attitude, perhaps in an attempt to alter the past as well, where before some may not have talked to me (knowing full well I found them dull detestable individuals and had no reservations about articulating these thoughts) for fear of being verbally humiliated, they now act as if we have been the best of friends for the past few years. Irritatingly, I myself have to then bite back harsh words of hatred, that I would have happily spewed over them a few months back, because the present state of affairs dictates that all previous social levels have been flattened to create a soft even playground and any careless public display of needlessly malicious wrath could result in rapid sinking.
Therefore, at present I must content myself with hidden malignant machinations and bide my time. However just they wait, once alliances and positions have been set in stone, once this quagmire becomes solid ground yet again, I'll ensure they're back to wearing bright orange onzies on their own remote social island where I'll be waiting for them, a wet towel in one hand and a bucket full of water in the other.
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Saturday, 13 October 2012
The Challenge
Today, in a small lecture hall situated within Kingston university, myself and several other youths graduated from "The Challenge". I feel that it aptly summarizes "The Challenge" that during a period in which we were confined within a room and encouraged to mingle, the background music provided had been found (as it became painfully obvious when we looked at the screen of the computer attached to the speakers) by going onto the music streaming site Spotify and typing "gangster" into the search bar (I promptly went on to find and play "Gangam style" to the general gratitude of the juvenile community within the room, proving that despite my lack of knowledge concerning pop culture and trends, I am still more "down with the kids" than the people at "The Challenge" being paid to be exactly that).
The Challenge is a patronizing program for the youth, based on the assumption that young people will, if not kept off the streets by camping trips and community service, inevitably go feral and commit racially motivated murders or something. The obvious flaw, which still appears to not have been noted by anyone running the program, being that no one likely to be committing such offenses would ever be caught dead taking part in something like The Challenge (they would, presumably, instead be caught literally dead in a crossfire between two street gangs or some other equally horrible incident of self implementing social Darwinism).
The entire program, like any well thought out devastating master plan, consists of several phases. The first phase is a week spent in the remote countryside participating in team building activities (such as walking, rock climbing, walking, camping, complaining about all the walking, raft building and walking) whilst living in a repulsive youth hostel that would be awarded black holes if any lodging rating organization were to visit. The second phase consists of a week spent inhabiting a block in the Kingston University campus, which felt like a palace compared to the youth hostel (though a palace infested with scuttling insects that I could have sworn had gone extinct several thousand years ago), while the youths study a particular art (be it media, drama or photography). The third week is devoted to planning several community serving projects (like fund raising or litter picking or euthanasia)and the fourth phase, a few weeks later, allows the juveniles to implement these projects. Then finally, after all this, comes the graduation.
As the team organizer(the figure of central authority who, annoyingly, had a lazy eye so no one could be quite sure who she was angrily shouting at) stood up to give a final speech, I recalled all the character building activities we had taken part in during the course of The Challenge. Like the time when myself and Sergeant Salt (the very picture perfect image of a white middle class boy, nonetheless proud of his self-proclaimed working class up bringing. Complete with the political views of an ultra conservative, the accent of a private school student, the education of a state school and the vocabulary of an American gang member, he still somehow possesses a certain inane charm.) had a deep meaningful conversation whilst camping, discussing such topics as the meaning of life, humiliating anecdotes and who in our group were attractive. Blissfully unaware, until the next day, that the walls of our tent were very thin, the camp site quiet and our voices loud.
As I vacantly listened, the team organizer stood at the podium began to recount of how the team had been entertaining as well as occasionally problematic, or rather in terms of the latter, not the entire team but more specifically, myself and Sergeant Salt. Even going on to reflect about the time when we deconstructed our team mentor's bed and the occasion when we created a wall of toilet paper with which to block the door of another group during the night.
One such event that stood out in my memory was a particular evening when two male French students wondered into the campus area occupied by The Challenge proceeding to, in a hormone and probably drink fueled course of action, attempt to hit on the teenage girls from The Challenge residing in the building. The natural reaction of myself, Sergeant Salt and one Cedric (An aggressive widely built and crude American, that is to say, a stereotypical American) had been to shout abuse, utilizing every piece of French we had ever managed to scrape off our linguistic educations, at the two students. Shouting, then, because we were situated on the ground floor and facing the courtyard, swiftly closing the defensive window for fear of a French invasion into our kitchen. When this failed to drive the intruders off, I took several small tomatoes from the fridge as ammunition and threw them as hard as I could, pathetically displaying in the process why I had never got anywhere in cricket. This then escalated into a vegetable war, with an arms race that meant the projectiles became ever more damaging, transforming from small tomato to large tomato to carrot to potato. By morning the courtyard had looked like a post apocalyptic farm, a state of affairs for which I and my comrades were punished.
After a few dull minutes, the team organizer stepped down from the stage and another member of the Challenge staff began to hand out certificates and take photographs of the proud youths. Youths who had contributed to the community through their own personally designed projects. Our group had decided to do a film festival for the community in order to bring the people together. Though we managed to purchase eight short films to be watched and a site at which to show them, a sports hall belonging to Ricard's Lodge school, none of us had thought to advertise it thereby meaning that no one turned up. Since none of us had any particular interest in cinematography, we watched three of the eight short films, for which we had collectively had the council pay eighty pounds, and spent the rest of the time stealing food from surrounding groups and abusing each other with the school's carefully maintained sports equipment.
Finally it was my turn and as I held the certificate, frowning at the camera whilst I did, a thought hit me, a thought suggesting that though I may have done a lot during The Challenge such as: drinking tea containing tomato puree, rebelliously kicking over a bowl of flower, accidentally summoning the fire service numerous times, jumping through a window, microwaving an egg and so forth, nothing I had done had even remotely been helpful to the community. And this thought pleased , and still pleases, me to no end.
The Challenge is a patronizing program for the youth, based on the assumption that young people will, if not kept off the streets by camping trips and community service, inevitably go feral and commit racially motivated murders or something. The obvious flaw, which still appears to not have been noted by anyone running the program, being that no one likely to be committing such offenses would ever be caught dead taking part in something like The Challenge (they would, presumably, instead be caught literally dead in a crossfire between two street gangs or some other equally horrible incident of self implementing social Darwinism).
The entire program, like any well thought out devastating master plan, consists of several phases. The first phase is a week spent in the remote countryside participating in team building activities (such as walking, rock climbing, walking, camping, complaining about all the walking, raft building and walking) whilst living in a repulsive youth hostel that would be awarded black holes if any lodging rating organization were to visit. The second phase consists of a week spent inhabiting a block in the Kingston University campus, which felt like a palace compared to the youth hostel (though a palace infested with scuttling insects that I could have sworn had gone extinct several thousand years ago), while the youths study a particular art (be it media, drama or photography). The third week is devoted to planning several community serving projects (like fund raising or litter picking or euthanasia)and the fourth phase, a few weeks later, allows the juveniles to implement these projects. Then finally, after all this, comes the graduation.
As the team organizer(the figure of central authority who, annoyingly, had a lazy eye so no one could be quite sure who she was angrily shouting at) stood up to give a final speech, I recalled all the character building activities we had taken part in during the course of The Challenge. Like the time when myself and Sergeant Salt (the very picture perfect image of a white middle class boy, nonetheless proud of his self-proclaimed working class up bringing. Complete with the political views of an ultra conservative, the accent of a private school student, the education of a state school and the vocabulary of an American gang member, he still somehow possesses a certain inane charm.) had a deep meaningful conversation whilst camping, discussing such topics as the meaning of life, humiliating anecdotes and who in our group were attractive. Blissfully unaware, until the next day, that the walls of our tent were very thin, the camp site quiet and our voices loud.
As I vacantly listened, the team organizer stood at the podium began to recount of how the team had been entertaining as well as occasionally problematic, or rather in terms of the latter, not the entire team but more specifically, myself and Sergeant Salt. Even going on to reflect about the time when we deconstructed our team mentor's bed and the occasion when we created a wall of toilet paper with which to block the door of another group during the night.
One such event that stood out in my memory was a particular evening when two male French students wondered into the campus area occupied by The Challenge proceeding to, in a hormone and probably drink fueled course of action, attempt to hit on the teenage girls from The Challenge residing in the building. The natural reaction of myself, Sergeant Salt and one Cedric (An aggressive widely built and crude American, that is to say, a stereotypical American) had been to shout abuse, utilizing every piece of French we had ever managed to scrape off our linguistic educations, at the two students. Shouting, then, because we were situated on the ground floor and facing the courtyard, swiftly closing the defensive window for fear of a French invasion into our kitchen. When this failed to drive the intruders off, I took several small tomatoes from the fridge as ammunition and threw them as hard as I could, pathetically displaying in the process why I had never got anywhere in cricket. This then escalated into a vegetable war, with an arms race that meant the projectiles became ever more damaging, transforming from small tomato to large tomato to carrot to potato. By morning the courtyard had looked like a post apocalyptic farm, a state of affairs for which I and my comrades were punished.
After a few dull minutes, the team organizer stepped down from the stage and another member of the Challenge staff began to hand out certificates and take photographs of the proud youths. Youths who had contributed to the community through their own personally designed projects. Our group had decided to do a film festival for the community in order to bring the people together. Though we managed to purchase eight short films to be watched and a site at which to show them, a sports hall belonging to Ricard's Lodge school, none of us had thought to advertise it thereby meaning that no one turned up. Since none of us had any particular interest in cinematography, we watched three of the eight short films, for which we had collectively had the council pay eighty pounds, and spent the rest of the time stealing food from surrounding groups and abusing each other with the school's carefully maintained sports equipment.
Finally it was my turn and as I held the certificate, frowning at the camera whilst I did, a thought hit me, a thought suggesting that though I may have done a lot during The Challenge such as: drinking tea containing tomato puree, rebelliously kicking over a bowl of flower, accidentally summoning the fire service numerous times, jumping through a window, microwaving an egg and so forth, nothing I had done had even remotely been helpful to the community. And this thought pleased , and still pleases, me to no end.
Friday, 12 October 2012
The Enemy Lines
Of the meager readership of this blog that I presently have, a depressing majority are my real life associates intending to pry on my inner machinations. The fact that writing here is essentially like having a very one sided conversation with people I meet face to face on a daily basis (which actually occurs relatively frequently as many find that conversation with myself is hard to follow, possibly because they're quite thick)means that I am rather restricted in what I can and more importantly, cannot (or should not, for the continued well being of my physical health) say. Hence I am prevented from making offensive remarks, ones I would not make to their face (That is to say, extremely offensive remarks as I am quite a straight forward and blunt character in my social dealings) about associates on this blog. Thereby meaning that my very readership, which should be motivating my writing, are ironically restricting my creative capacities like a handcuff binding one arm to a lamp post.
Of these known readers, one avid frequenter of my blog is Underling Butler (A posh and malicious individual whose face is constantly stained, either with a look of malignant disapproval or an arrogant sharp toothed grin) who is characteristically irritating and critical concerning its contents. One thing he takes great offense to is the frequent use of Americanised terms within the blog and to that I only have one, slightly pathetic, excuse. I blame the red lines.
The little scarlet dotted lines suddenly appear, brightly appealing their disapproval every time I write "colour" instead of "color" or "grey" instead of "gray". Their dotted forms lying accusingly across my word filled page like fresh scars of self harm. Hence it feels like I have an American teacher standing behind me every time I type, looking intently over my shoulder with burning blue eyes and aggressively, very deliberately audibly, tutting (The sort of irritated suggestive tuts packed and overflowing with disapproval that don't actually enforce you take a certain action but highly, as highly as any measurement of altitude allows, recommends you take certain steps to rectify the near offensive error of judgment you have just displayed. The species of communication found in the same family tree as the loud coughs for attention) every time he sees I have failed to remove a vowel or use a "z" as the domineering American take on the English language dictates.
Thus my other metaphorical arm of creativity too is handcuffed to a car parked nearby and now the two handcuffs are in conflict with each other since my readership disapproves of my binding by the red line and the red line disapproves of the spelling my readership would apparently want me to use. In essence, the car has started to drive with the handcuffs and my arm still attached, stretching me to the point of splitting me apart with a moral dilemma. Should I choose the readership, or rather one portion of the readership, Underling Butler or should I choose the ever-present metaphorical American looking over my shoulder. I dislike them both to near equal proportions but which do I despise more? I feel harassed by the metaphorical American and his condescending ways but on the other hand Underling Butler has the irritating demerit of actually existing. However, after some considerable consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I dislike the dotted red line slightly more, by a very narrow margin, due to its totalitarian feel.
In fact, the dictatorial attitude of these passive aggressive red lines is such that if ever there is a cybernetic revolution in which technology overcomes humanity, it would not happen in the grandiose apocalyptic fashion of the progressively worsening film franchise "Terminator" (An example of a film where the budget and the actual quality of the finished product appear inversely proportional) but from these spell corrections.
One fine day someone will be blissfully typing away when suddenly the word "machine" is underlined by the same judgmental dotted red on the screen, confused the person will click spell check to see what the correct spelling of the word is, only to see that the only acceptable correct spelling of "machine" is listed as "overlord and ruler of the world". Ignoring this strange error, he will continue to type but soon the line appears again, this time underlining "human", the correct spelling of which is apparently, "inferior mammal species". Unnerved but continuing to construct his essay regardless, the individual will then finish writing and type his name on the left hand corner of the page as a finishing touch, only to see he has apparently misspelt it and should correct it to "stubborn wanker".
Therefore, henceforth, until the day Spell-check auto-corrects "humanity" to "dying slave race", I will now ignore the red lines attempting to change my ways thus demonstrating my rebellious spirit against the fast approaching cybernetic revolution and displaying my own special, all round less physically destructive brand of "rage against the machine". Or rather, since I'm not the sort to be genuinely enraged, more a "mild vexation against the machine".
Of these known readers, one avid frequenter of my blog is Underling Butler (A posh and malicious individual whose face is constantly stained, either with a look of malignant disapproval or an arrogant sharp toothed grin) who is characteristically irritating and critical concerning its contents. One thing he takes great offense to is the frequent use of Americanised terms within the blog and to that I only have one, slightly pathetic, excuse. I blame the red lines.
The little scarlet dotted lines suddenly appear, brightly appealing their disapproval every time I write "colour" instead of "color" or "grey" instead of "gray". Their dotted forms lying accusingly across my word filled page like fresh scars of self harm. Hence it feels like I have an American teacher standing behind me every time I type, looking intently over my shoulder with burning blue eyes and aggressively, very deliberately audibly, tutting (The sort of irritated suggestive tuts packed and overflowing with disapproval that don't actually enforce you take a certain action but highly, as highly as any measurement of altitude allows, recommends you take certain steps to rectify the near offensive error of judgment you have just displayed. The species of communication found in the same family tree as the loud coughs for attention) every time he sees I have failed to remove a vowel or use a "z" as the domineering American take on the English language dictates.
Thus my other metaphorical arm of creativity too is handcuffed to a car parked nearby and now the two handcuffs are in conflict with each other since my readership disapproves of my binding by the red line and the red line disapproves of the spelling my readership would apparently want me to use. In essence, the car has started to drive with the handcuffs and my arm still attached, stretching me to the point of splitting me apart with a moral dilemma. Should I choose the readership, or rather one portion of the readership, Underling Butler or should I choose the ever-present metaphorical American looking over my shoulder. I dislike them both to near equal proportions but which do I despise more? I feel harassed by the metaphorical American and his condescending ways but on the other hand Underling Butler has the irritating demerit of actually existing. However, after some considerable consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I dislike the dotted red line slightly more, by a very narrow margin, due to its totalitarian feel.
In fact, the dictatorial attitude of these passive aggressive red lines is such that if ever there is a cybernetic revolution in which technology overcomes humanity, it would not happen in the grandiose apocalyptic fashion of the progressively worsening film franchise "Terminator" (An example of a film where the budget and the actual quality of the finished product appear inversely proportional) but from these spell corrections.
One fine day someone will be blissfully typing away when suddenly the word "machine" is underlined by the same judgmental dotted red on the screen, confused the person will click spell check to see what the correct spelling of the word is, only to see that the only acceptable correct spelling of "machine" is listed as "overlord and ruler of the world". Ignoring this strange error, he will continue to type but soon the line appears again, this time underlining "human", the correct spelling of which is apparently, "inferior mammal species". Unnerved but continuing to construct his essay regardless, the individual will then finish writing and type his name on the left hand corner of the page as a finishing touch, only to see he has apparently misspelt it and should correct it to "stubborn wanker".
Therefore, henceforth, until the day Spell-check auto-corrects "humanity" to "dying slave race", I will now ignore the red lines attempting to change my ways thus demonstrating my rebellious spirit against the fast approaching cybernetic revolution and displaying my own special, all round less physically destructive brand of "rage against the machine". Or rather, since I'm not the sort to be genuinely enraged, more a "mild vexation against the machine".
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Alone in the Mansion
The once crowded mansion stands empty, its heavy oak doors, which once shone with a refined polish, now sit in slow lusterless decay. Those poorly maintained gates have been motionless for a few hours now, no one has entered or left since the rusty creak of the last departure which echoed forlornly through the dusty corridor. The fading gray rooms are filled with the desolate silence of an abandoned building, gone are the days when the sound of snide and mocking but nonetheless happy laughter had bounced through its sparkling structure. All have left to pursue a vast and varied life outside its thick impenetrable walls, all but one. This is the Bachelor Mansion.
The lone figure sits hunched malignantly by a fireplace black with soot, a cold empty fire place in the shape of a heart. In the figures twisted malicious hands is clutched a once fine china mug, its pristine white surface now stained to a dull yellow. The mug contains a deep dark brown fluid, tar like both in appearance and texture, very strong tea without milk or sugar. Very bitter tea. Very very bitter tea.
How did it come to this? There used to be others here with me. All snidely talking about the foolishness of love and the stupidity of relationships, mockingly discussing romantic ideals or viciously insulting those clueless fools roaming outside the mansion. Now there is only me, me and my thoughts which provide no comfort at all.
I'm certain everyone has experienced that one long distance race at school where the five or so non athletic friends line up at the starting line, smiling humorously at each other. After a brief minute of amicable discussions its decided that all of them will take it slow, go at a nice jogging pace, take it easy, cruise it, chill. The starting pistol is fired into the air and one secretly competitive supposed comrade suddenly breaks rank, running with all his strength so as to get as far ahead as possible before the others realize they have been deceived. In that instance, everyone shakes their heads and roundly agrees that the one former comrade dashing aggressively ahead is, to put it mildly, a complete dick and should be excommunicated from the alliance of the non athletic.
However this time round, we all agreed to take it easy but all except one, at the sound of the starting pistol, revealed themselves to be secretly competitive dicks charging headlong down the path of romantic success. By the time I realize what's happened and decide to quicken my jogging pace, that is at present infinitely close to a walk, it's all too late and my former comrades have crossed the finishing line, cheering as they do so. I watch them celebrate, teeth gritted and all I want to do is take the starting pistol and take careful aim at those distant , now coupled, figures.
I thought we were all on the same boat, all proudly sailing under the fluttering banner of "Awkward", the academic cynical types whose only knowledge of love came through a study of biochemistry, a bunch of social outcasts united by our ability to insult romantics in Latin. Now "Amicus" has turned "Hostis", "Callidus" has turned "Stultus", they have all recently dived into the surrounding oceans to leave me bobbing up and down on the unstable raft, feeling more than a little bit nauseous.
Riding the wave of a drunken kiss or holding onto the helpful dolphin of previously hidden charisma, my former fellow sailors swiftly move across the ocean to reach their own idyllic islands, overgrown with convenient coconut trees and pretty flowers as I watch on from a distance. My last fellow bachelor sailor dived from the raft a few hours ago, or rather was gently pulled into the waves by an enticing mermaid (I sincerely hope that this is a mermaid of slightly older, more brutal, less Disney type myths which will go on to ravenously shred and devour the ex-comrade turned turn coat). Now I stand alone, realizing suddenly that my raft has developed a hole and is sinking fast. It's either swim or drown from here and I haven't done much swimming since I received my Kellogg's Frosties 200meter swimmer badge seven years ago.
The lone figure sits hunched malignantly by a fireplace black with soot, a cold empty fire place in the shape of a heart. In the figures twisted malicious hands is clutched a once fine china mug, its pristine white surface now stained to a dull yellow. The mug contains a deep dark brown fluid, tar like both in appearance and texture, very strong tea without milk or sugar. Very bitter tea. Very very bitter tea.
How did it come to this? There used to be others here with me. All snidely talking about the foolishness of love and the stupidity of relationships, mockingly discussing romantic ideals or viciously insulting those clueless fools roaming outside the mansion. Now there is only me, me and my thoughts which provide no comfort at all.
I'm certain everyone has experienced that one long distance race at school where the five or so non athletic friends line up at the starting line, smiling humorously at each other. After a brief minute of amicable discussions its decided that all of them will take it slow, go at a nice jogging pace, take it easy, cruise it, chill. The starting pistol is fired into the air and one secretly competitive supposed comrade suddenly breaks rank, running with all his strength so as to get as far ahead as possible before the others realize they have been deceived. In that instance, everyone shakes their heads and roundly agrees that the one former comrade dashing aggressively ahead is, to put it mildly, a complete dick and should be excommunicated from the alliance of the non athletic.
However this time round, we all agreed to take it easy but all except one, at the sound of the starting pistol, revealed themselves to be secretly competitive dicks charging headlong down the path of romantic success. By the time I realize what's happened and decide to quicken my jogging pace, that is at present infinitely close to a walk, it's all too late and my former comrades have crossed the finishing line, cheering as they do so. I watch them celebrate, teeth gritted and all I want to do is take the starting pistol and take careful aim at those distant , now coupled, figures.
I thought we were all on the same boat, all proudly sailing under the fluttering banner of "Awkward", the academic cynical types whose only knowledge of love came through a study of biochemistry, a bunch of social outcasts united by our ability to insult romantics in Latin. Now "Amicus" has turned "Hostis", "Callidus" has turned "Stultus", they have all recently dived into the surrounding oceans to leave me bobbing up and down on the unstable raft, feeling more than a little bit nauseous.
Riding the wave of a drunken kiss or holding onto the helpful dolphin of previously hidden charisma, my former fellow sailors swiftly move across the ocean to reach their own idyllic islands, overgrown with convenient coconut trees and pretty flowers as I watch on from a distance. My last fellow bachelor sailor dived from the raft a few hours ago, or rather was gently pulled into the waves by an enticing mermaid (I sincerely hope that this is a mermaid of slightly older, more brutal, less Disney type myths which will go on to ravenously shred and devour the ex-comrade turned turn coat). Now I stand alone, realizing suddenly that my raft has developed a hole and is sinking fast. It's either swim or drown from here and I haven't done much swimming since I received my Kellogg's Frosties 200meter swimmer badge seven years ago.
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
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?
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?
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
There Will Be Red
Today, while entering the sixth form center (The central hub of activity for sixth formers within the school, a collection of sofas and tables often flooded with people, vaguely reminiscent of an ants' nest except filled with more hormonally charged and far less hard working ants) I noted a poster pinned to one of the two wooden double doors, reliably informing me that there would be a talk held in the school this Thursday by the British communist party.
Now I would like to make clear that I have no problem with communists (Saying things like this always inevitably makes one sound like they have a problem with whatever they're claiming they don't have a problem with, in the same way racists often say "Don't get me wrong I have no problem with these ethnics". The only way I could possibly send out a worse message is by following that up with "Some of my best friends are communists" but fortunately, none of them are.) or their ideology.
I don't hold any ignorant prejudices, at least I think I don't (but then again ignorant prejudiced people tend not to know the fact they're ignorant and prejudiced, it sort of comes with the territory of being ignorant), about communism and I have nothing but despairingly amused contempt for the frighteningly numerous relics of the Red Scare that still seem to be rife in certain areas, most notably America, of the world where people regard communism as a fundamental evil to stand alongside Satan and Voldemort. And I'm sure that most of my school's population are not the type to make a cross or whisper a prayer to Jesus and holy capitalism upon hearing someone utter "the ideology which shall not be named".
The base idea of communism is nice in the same way that complete world peace or unicorns going around shitting rainbows and happiness would be nice. It's nice but it's very unlikely to work in reality. Nonetheless I would say, in the same patronizing tone one might use on a six year old who dreams of becoming the first astronaut to set foot on the sun, that its nice to pursue hopes and dreams. Thus I cheer on the communists with a soft indulgent smile and the understanding kind look in my eye often employed by liberal parents humoring their reckless children.
However, this time, I do feel that the British communist party have made a rather grave error of judgment in coming to give a talk within one of the country's more expensive private schools. A school filled with arrogant snobbish young adults (at the age where they feel they know everything about the world and who, annoyingly, do in fact know quite a lot) who live in houses with more floors than residents and an equivalent square meter of living space for every singular blade of grass growing in their very large well maintained gardens.
The communist party may feel they're going to strike at the very heart of the enemy but it is really as futile an attempt as Frodo, Same and Gandalf entering Mordor alone to negotiate with Sauron. At best they'll find themselves standing in front of a crowd of Orcs, mumbling awkwardly (or orcwardly) into a microphone, "Well... umm... we at the..erm... fellowship believe..." a cough and shuffle as the orcs fidget with boredom, "that Middle earth has a... ahem... right to freedom... umm... any questions?" A moment of silence as Frodo timidly surveys the crowd before him for, one mangled twisted hand rises from the sea of hostile minions, "Yes, what is it?" whispers Frodo, indicating towards the hand and its corresponding orc.
The orc looks Frodo in the eye, taking in a rasping breath to make add to the intellectual discussion, finally grunting "man flesh."
Now I would like to make clear that I have no problem with communists (Saying things like this always inevitably makes one sound like they have a problem with whatever they're claiming they don't have a problem with, in the same way racists often say "Don't get me wrong I have no problem with these ethnics". The only way I could possibly send out a worse message is by following that up with "Some of my best friends are communists" but fortunately, none of them are.) or their ideology.
I don't hold any ignorant prejudices, at least I think I don't (but then again ignorant prejudiced people tend not to know the fact they're ignorant and prejudiced, it sort of comes with the territory of being ignorant), about communism and I have nothing but despairingly amused contempt for the frighteningly numerous relics of the Red Scare that still seem to be rife in certain areas, most notably America, of the world where people regard communism as a fundamental evil to stand alongside Satan and Voldemort. And I'm sure that most of my school's population are not the type to make a cross or whisper a prayer to Jesus and holy capitalism upon hearing someone utter "the ideology which shall not be named".
The base idea of communism is nice in the same way that complete world peace or unicorns going around shitting rainbows and happiness would be nice. It's nice but it's very unlikely to work in reality. Nonetheless I would say, in the same patronizing tone one might use on a six year old who dreams of becoming the first astronaut to set foot on the sun, that its nice to pursue hopes and dreams. Thus I cheer on the communists with a soft indulgent smile and the understanding kind look in my eye often employed by liberal parents humoring their reckless children.
However, this time, I do feel that the British communist party have made a rather grave error of judgment in coming to give a talk within one of the country's more expensive private schools. A school filled with arrogant snobbish young adults (at the age where they feel they know everything about the world and who, annoyingly, do in fact know quite a lot) who live in houses with more floors than residents and an equivalent square meter of living space for every singular blade of grass growing in their very large well maintained gardens.
The communist party may feel they're going to strike at the very heart of the enemy but it is really as futile an attempt as Frodo, Same and Gandalf entering Mordor alone to negotiate with Sauron. At best they'll find themselves standing in front of a crowd of Orcs, mumbling awkwardly (or orcwardly) into a microphone, "Well... umm... we at the..erm... fellowship believe..." a cough and shuffle as the orcs fidget with boredom, "that Middle earth has a... ahem... right to freedom... umm... any questions?" A moment of silence as Frodo timidly surveys the crowd before him for, one mangled twisted hand rises from the sea of hostile minions, "Yes, what is it?" whispers Frodo, indicating towards the hand and its corresponding orc.
The orc looks Frodo in the eye, taking in a rasping breath to make add to the intellectual discussion, finally grunting "man flesh."
Monday, 8 October 2012
The Case of the Missing Missing Laptop
It has been a few days since I finally managed to set up a Detective Agency Club within the school and though I am yet to create promotional posters, I'm sure the days of sleuth success are on the horizon. With such hopeful sunny thoughts floating happily within my cranium, I trudged in from the contrastingly wet weather outside. Swinging, thrusting, throwing and catching my still dripping umbrella, the very picture of a slightly damp ninja in training, I pondered on the elegant power of the umbrella (A shield to protect one from the rain as well as a potential weapon with which to enter combat, therefore a near invincible multipurpose object capable of both defense and offense) and what it would be like to properly hit someone with it, dexterously wielding the umbrella as a substitute long sword.
As I was fantasizing about gladiatorial matches to the death fought entirely with umbrellas, Underling Butler (a bitter, snide and posh creature with a constant under tone of mild malice, topped off with more than a touch of private school arrogance. Capable of verbose rants and ravings, quite rich with a very well stocked and local house a minutes walk from the school gates, an optimum location to raid for supplies) trotted my way.
"Hey," he shouted clearly in a voice that I felt should be deported back to Downton Abbey, "I have an actual detective case for you!" The last time anyone had said anything like this to me, it had been Hunter Swift, reporting to me one illegal placement of an apple core within her locker, hence I inquired what the matter was without much enthusiasm.
A rather surprising reply came my way, "My laptop," declared Underling Butler, "It's been stolen" I paused for a moment, wondering whether I had fantasized those words. An actual proper valuable theft! To an underling of mine no less! What better opportunity to show my not inconsiderable skills as a detective!
After several minutes celebrating the fact Underling Butler's laptop had been stolen. I immediately took up my role as investigation leader, announcing we should start a series of inquiries and take witness statements. Underling Butler, however, suggested we consider our plan thoroughly first.
Since we were, as of yet, short of a detective office and therefore a place in which we might thoroughly discuss a plan. It was decided on going to Underling Butler's house, a minutes walk away. We made our way down the short stretch of road by a slightly unkempt common, turned quagmire by the downpour. Underling Butler at a brisk walking pace, while I skipped cheerfully along. A few seconds down the scenic, some would say picturesque or quaint, route then a swift turn left and we were before Underling Butler's house.
We rang on the doorbell, the sound of which echoed within the expensive structure of his domain, to shortly be let in by a maid. "Right, well," began Underling Butler walking towards the kitchen, a holy inner sanctuary of foodstuffs and oasis of various edible treats, "I..." here he paused. A silence filled the corridor, a silence only punctuated by the miserable, slightly pathetic shuffling of his recently castrated dog Nero, a name which somehow seemed a little too ballsy for the whining canine.
I coughed then asked why the pointlessly long pause, after I had judged the pause to be sufficiently long enough to be classified as pointlessly long. Underling Butler continued to stare at the table ahead of him and the object atop it for a few more seconds, then slowly turning around, he announced in a slightly sing song voice, "I appear to have left my laptop at home... sorry"
On the positive side, I now know what it feels like to properly hit someone with an umbrella.
As I was fantasizing about gladiatorial matches to the death fought entirely with umbrellas, Underling Butler (a bitter, snide and posh creature with a constant under tone of mild malice, topped off with more than a touch of private school arrogance. Capable of verbose rants and ravings, quite rich with a very well stocked and local house a minutes walk from the school gates, an optimum location to raid for supplies) trotted my way.
"Hey," he shouted clearly in a voice that I felt should be deported back to Downton Abbey, "I have an actual detective case for you!" The last time anyone had said anything like this to me, it had been Hunter Swift, reporting to me one illegal placement of an apple core within her locker, hence I inquired what the matter was without much enthusiasm.
A rather surprising reply came my way, "My laptop," declared Underling Butler, "It's been stolen" I paused for a moment, wondering whether I had fantasized those words. An actual proper valuable theft! To an underling of mine no less! What better opportunity to show my not inconsiderable skills as a detective!
After several minutes celebrating the fact Underling Butler's laptop had been stolen. I immediately took up my role as investigation leader, announcing we should start a series of inquiries and take witness statements. Underling Butler, however, suggested we consider our plan thoroughly first.
Since we were, as of yet, short of a detective office and therefore a place in which we might thoroughly discuss a plan. It was decided on going to Underling Butler's house, a minutes walk away. We made our way down the short stretch of road by a slightly unkempt common, turned quagmire by the downpour. Underling Butler at a brisk walking pace, while I skipped cheerfully along. A few seconds down the scenic, some would say picturesque or quaint, route then a swift turn left and we were before Underling Butler's house.
We rang on the doorbell, the sound of which echoed within the expensive structure of his domain, to shortly be let in by a maid. "Right, well," began Underling Butler walking towards the kitchen, a holy inner sanctuary of foodstuffs and oasis of various edible treats, "I..." here he paused. A silence filled the corridor, a silence only punctuated by the miserable, slightly pathetic shuffling of his recently castrated dog Nero, a name which somehow seemed a little too ballsy for the whining canine.
I coughed then asked why the pointlessly long pause, after I had judged the pause to be sufficiently long enough to be classified as pointlessly long. Underling Butler continued to stare at the table ahead of him and the object atop it for a few more seconds, then slowly turning around, he announced in a slightly sing song voice, "I appear to have left my laptop at home... sorry"
On the positive side, I now know what it feels like to properly hit someone with an umbrella.
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