Blogs, Stories, Procrastination

2011 - A Summary

2011-12-31T13:41:00.003Z

As December closes it's common to see articles and programmes rounding up the experiences of the past 12 months, looking for ways to sum up the events of the year to give future historians an easier job. As we reach the end of 2011, many of these are talking about this as "The Year That Lots Happened".

Informative though that title may be, what may be a better way to sum up the past year would be "2011 - The Year Society Reached New Lows".

When we look back at 2011, what will we really remember? The Royal Wedding and the death of Steve Jobs will certainly stand out as two events that - for very different reasons - brought people together and demonstrated that there is still a spark of decency, community and affection amongst the populous. Other notable deaths - those, for example, of various enemies of the West: Bin Laden, Ghaddafi, Kim Jong Il - prompted less inspiring reactions. Some celebrated, not always in appropriate ways. Some took to their high horses to lecture everyone on why we should still honour and respect the passing of brutal dictators and terrorist plotters who sent thousands to early graves for their own pointless, selfish reasons. And most just made snarky jokes on twitter and facebook and forwarded them on to their friends.

And then we come to those other big stories of the year. Those stories that make you look at society and have to swallow the shame vomit crawling past your tonsils.

Phone hacking and super-injunctions. Two sides of the same filth encrusted penny. On the one hand we condemn the News Of The World and all of Murdochs minions for hacking in to phones, stealing voicemail messages and spreading the shit they find there all over their papers. How dare they go so low as to intrude on peoples private lives just to get a story. On the other we condemn those that take out super-injunctions to prevent anyone reporting on their secret affairs. How dare they try and hide their sordid lives from us.

When a celebrity tries to hide from what they've done and prevent their story being told in the press, we take to twitter in armies and rat them out so everyone knows who they are. When a journalist tries to find these stories using certain methods we force a 138 year old paper to stop printing.

This double standard isn't even the worst part. Look at the source of each of these issues. The stories that are being told or hidden from them. These aren't important. Super-injunctions aren't being used to hide political scandals. Phone hacking isn't being used to unveil paedophile rings. The biggest thing revealed by a failed super-injunction was that Ryan Giggs had sex with some girl from Big Brother. And we're all sitting at our laptops patting ourselves on the backs for being able to beat the system and spread this story around.

We completely missed the point. The story there shouldn't have been "Ryan Giggs had an affair and then tried to hide it from the public". It should have been "Ryan Giggs had an affair and then FELT THAT HE HAD TO TRY AND HIDE IT FROM THE PUBLIC because apparently we've decided as a society that who a footballer's fucking is something that we should all care about". And with the year being taken up by stories of these super-injunctions and phone hacking enquiries, it never seems to occur to us that maybe if we just grew the hell up and stopped thinking that this is the sort of inane, unimportant bullshit that we should focus on, neither of these things will be an issue. We forget that the people writing these stories aren't the evil ones, forcing us to pay attention to this crap - they work for us. We tell them we want stories of celebrities behaving badly and they oblige. This, right now, is the point where we should realise that we've gone too far and we seriously need to reassess the kind of stories we want.

But that's not happening. We're just going to keep finding new ways to get around injunctions, and force journalists to find new ways of spying on people just so we can find out who one of the droopy mouthed morons from Geordie Shore is banging behind the scenes.

And then we come to the final big story of the year which is, of course, the riots across the country. A time when, for seemingly no reason at all, great tribes of twats adopted a "Monkey See, Monkey Do" attitude across the country and looted, burned and trashed various city centres - proving themselves to be the stupidest, most awful piles of scum on the planet. The end of the summer was then spent trying to decifer just how this had happened, and what the point of it was. Were the riots politically motivated? Was it to make a socio-economic point? Was it out of necessity?

As it turned out, people were rioting because they were morons. The very worst of humanity rose up and rioted purely because someone had failed to realise that they should have been drowned at birth.

So that's 2011. We finally went too far with our addiction to idiotic celebrity gossip - and then continued. We recognised the behaviours of the worst of our journalists - and learned nothing from it. And we were terrorised by our own people - and were unable to catch them all, lock them up in the Jeremy Kyle studios and set the place on fire. We then sat back and allowed our television channels to fill up with nonsensical, intellectually offensive "scripted reality" shows, let the charts fill up with previously pleasant songs remixed in to garbled, robotic messes of sound and tweeted racist jokes about dead leaders.

2011 is the year that brought out the very worst in society, and all signs show that we're not planning on making ourselves any better in 2012.

What's On Television?

2011-11-20T20:37:00.002Z

I watch a lot of television. A Lot. More television than I actually have time for. My Sky+ box is almost full with programmes that I've yet to get round to watching. Recently I had to delete the entire second series of Treme from it, on the realisation that I simply didn't have the time to sit through the ten hours (without adverts) of post Katrina blues drama that had built up in my planner.

But I started wondering about it. With everything I watch - which shows do I actually care about?

I got an email from my friend Dexter earlier, that ended with the question "Have you seen Life's Too Short yet?" I had, and I proceeded to explain to Dexter that, though I have been a big fan of Gervais and Merchant in the past - and had been looking forward to this programme for some time, I was ultimately disappointed by it. I found it thin, derivative and - aside from the scene with Liam Neeson - simply not very funny. But I ended my message by assuring him that I would still continue to watch the rest of the series in the hope that it would improve.

Does this seem like strange behaviour to you? After watching the first episode, and deciding I didn't like it, why would I continue to dedicate time to watching this programme? Maybe it will get better as it goes on, but there's an equal chance that it won't, so why not just cut my losses now and stop watching?

When I thought more about this, I thought about other programmes that I have continued to sit through, despite being fully aware of their lack of quality. With the exception of Treme, I can't think of another television show that I've completely given up on in the midst of a series (a fact made twice as sad when I reflect that Treme really is very good - I'll have to get the box set in the Summer). I remember when Lost was coming to an end, there were so many people who said "Oh I thought it got silly after the second season, so I stopped watching it then." I've never done this. Even programmes like Heroes, that were obviously getting worse as they progressed, I kept watching religiously right until the cancellation point in the hope that they would improve. I've loudly complained about the lack of quality in The Simpsons in the last few years, but I still watch all the new episodes when they're shown on TV.

Maybe television addiction is a real thing. Or maybe I just need to find other things to do. For whatever reason, it's a rare thing for me to say goodbye to a television show before it's come to an end, or been cancelled.

And when I think of this, I think of all the programmes I watch at the moment. If they were cancelled tomorrow, how many of them would I really be bothered about losing? Off the top of my head I can only think of a handful of programmes that I'd be genuinely upset if I knew there was never going to be another episode:

Frozen Planet (of which there's only about three or four more episodes anyway)
Mad Men (which hasn't been on since October 2010 and won't be back until an unspecified time next year).
Doctor Who
The Simpsons (though this is more because I want to see it continue is reign of longevity than because I enjoy the new episodes)

That's it.
There are other programmes I enjoy watching, but I'm not as bothered about them ending as I would be for those above, or as I was for Lost, Friends, Scrubs or Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.

It's sad really. All that time I've spent on these programmes. And really it's all been wasted. It's like going to your favourite restaurant - one that you've been to hundreds of times before - and realising that you don't really like the food there.

I know I should just stop. But I won't.

My Breakdown After Dealing With The Breakdown Service

2011-11-17T20:56:00.012Z

The other day, my brother informed me that his car had a flat tire, that he'd called the RAC to come and fix it and that he was going out. I was sad, happy and proud of him at that time. Happy that he was going out, sad that his car had a flat tire, and proud that he'd already found a way to resolve his car troubles. I was also a little confused about why he was informing me of these things, but that only lasted until his next sentence.

"So when the RAC guy gets here, can you give him my keys?"

Of course I could! I could definitely be responsible for that job. I'm a sophisticated, intelligent twenty something. Acknowledging the RAC man and handing over some keys was a positively simple job for me, and one that I knew I would handle confidently and professionally. I assured him that I was up to the task and took the all important keys from him, leaving him to go out and enjoy his thriving social life while I remained at home watching Simpsons repeats.

Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. Before opening it, without even looking, I knew that this would be the aforementioned man from the RAC. It was just like instinct or something - some ingrained sense built in to our evolutionary pattern that lets you instantly know that the person at your door is exactly the person you've been expecting all evening. The human mind is truly an amazing thing.

I readied myself. This was the moment. I knew it. I made sure I had the keys in my hand and I answered the door with the appropriate gusto. The plan went without a hitch. Within mere minutes the man from the RAC had my brothers car keys and was already at work fixing the problem. I patted myself on the back for a job well done, treated myself to a penguin biscuit and sat down to continue my third Simpsons episode of the evening (it was the one where Homer and Flanders get married in Las Vegas - a classic).

A short time later the doorbell rang again. The RAC man was back after successfully finishing his work on my brothers car. I congratulated him on a job well done, and signed the form he held out to confirm that he had completed his work to a satisfactory standard. I considered offering a gold star sticker to it, like I always got in school for my good work, but wasn't sure if we had any available and feared disappointing the man if we didn't. I stayed quiet on the matter.

I considered the task my brother gave me complete, when the man suddenly revealed a hitherto unmentioned part of the job. He asked if I would be willing to complete a short survey on his special RAC touchscreen-computer-tablet-thing about the evenings dealings.

Wanting nothing more than to help, I of course accepted this. "I can manage this" I thought, "look at how well I've managed the key situation, and the signing of the bit of paper. I'm a veritable master of dealing with the RAC, I can handle anything they throw at me. Survey? Pah! I'll do the best damn multiple choice picking they've ever seen."

I took the computer-tablet-thing from him and read the first question.

"How would you rate the level of customer service experienced when you first phoned the RAC?"

Uh-oh. How could I answer that? It was my brother who had called them, not me! And he wasn't here! What do I do? Was it too late to just abandon the survey, to hand the computer-tablet-thing back to the man and explain that I couldn't possibly answer all these questions? Oh no, I couldn't do that. How would I explain that I simply didn't know the answers? What would the man think of me? No, I must finish the survey. I'd accepted the task and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to see it through to the end.

But what answer do I give? How important are these surveys? I had no way of knowing how many people really took these. What if my answers were part of a very small group? They might significantly skew the results. Maybe if I just put high marks for them. Yes, that would be the best thing, surely. But what if it wasn't? Maybe the customer service was terrible, but by offering high marks I'd only be encouraging that and preventing the company from resolving it for the benefit of other customers.

But if I gave an unjustly low mark, someone who doesn't deserve it may get in trouble. Oh what to do? Even the neutral answers seem unfair. They might deserve to be praised or scolded and I offer neither. I pondered the problem for several seconds, unnerved by the enormity of my decision and the harsh, impatient eyes of the man who had offered me this impossible test watching me. I gave up, let the fates, my subconscious and my natural motor skills decide by randomly hitting the screen with my finger without looking at it. I missed on the first attempt, but the second was a success. Having picked an option the survey moved on to question two:

"How would you rate the response time of the RAC to your initial request for help?"

Oh God. Another one I wasn't qualified to answer. I selected randomly again, doing the same for the other eight questions in the survey. Finally it was over and I handed the computer-tablet-thing back to the RAC man and bade him farewell.

Closing the door behind me I pondered the consequences of my insincere answers, and worried about the hell that I may unwittingly have unleashed upon the employees and/or customers of the RAC's breakdown service.

That's the last time I do a favour for my brother.

The Importance of Commentary in a Fair Trial

2011-11-15T12:21:00.001Z

According to news reports, the jury responsible for the outcome of the trial of two men accused of murdering teenager Stephen Lawrence have been told by the judge to stay away from social media sites Twitter and Facebook, in case they include "commentary" of the trial. This is supposedly done in the interest of a fair trial.

This, to me, doesn't quite make sense. I'm not saying I'm against the prospect of a fair trial - far from it - but I'm not sure that isolating the jury from the opinions of the masses is the way to go about it.

The jury is selected randomly in order to represent the rest of the population in coming up with a fair verdict. A small number is chosen simply because it's unfeasible to try and give all that information to everyone in the country and have us all vote on it. But they're still a small group. If they're to represent us, then why are they not allowed to hear what we have to say?

The benefit of social networking - especially twitter - is that everyone can put forward their thoughts on the topics of the day in real time. When it comes to a trial, I don't see why those responsible for coming to a decision can't see what other people are saying about it. Surely by allowing the views of hundreds of more people to be heard, we are making the overall verdict more fair, not less.

I'm not saying they should make looking at twitter the most important aspect of their decision making. After all, they're the ones in the courtroom. They're the ones who see all the evidence, and they're the ones hearing arguments from both sides. Obviously that's the most important thing they should be focussing on. But surely they should still be allowed to see what everyone else thinks about the proceedings - even if they're warned to take it with a little pinch of salt. Because, by our court system, the people tweeting had an equal chance of ending up in that jury. So why ignore their views?

I want a fair trial in every case. And I believe that when it comes down to it, discussion is vital in ensuring the right decision is made. And removing the possibility of discussion with the rest of your peers is not the way to ensure a fair trial.

Save The World By Changing The Nations Working Hours (A Manifesto)

2011-11-10T19:36:00.000Z

A major problem with the way that all of society operates is the time in which we do everything.

Let me explain: An average work day for an average person in Britain is 9-5.30 Monday-Friday. With an hour for lunch usually 12-1 or 1-2.

Now already this fundamentally isn't fair. It's a well documented psychological fact that some people really are night owls, and some really are early birds. They just are, that's just how it works. Some people can just get out of bed at 6 O'clock in the morning, welcoming the day with big grins on their smug faces, while others gloomily force themselves to let go of the duvet and pour giant cups of scalding coffee down their throats in the hope that the burning nerve endings will send enough electrical signals to the brain to shock it awake. Which is why morning people always have happy sing-song voices while the others croak their way through the AM like toads with lung cancer.

People often say these people should just go to bed earlier - that if they weren't still scouring music forums or shooting japanese children on MW3 at two in the morning they'd find it much easier to get up. But we all know this isn't really true. Night owls don't go to bed early, because they can't sleep that early. Just like the early risers will pass out on the sofa if they even try to stay up past Newsnight.

So why then, must the night owls be punished daily by being forced to adhere to the same working times as the early birds? I should make it clear now that I put myself in the night owl group. I usually don't go to bed anytime before 2am, and that's only because I force myself to - knowing that I have to get up at 8 in order to get to work. If I didn't feel I had to do this then I probably would never go to bed before 4 because that's when my body wants to sleep.

And that's exactly where the problem is. If I'm having to force myself to go to bed when I naturally don't want to, just so I can get enough hours sleep before I force myself to get up when I naturally don't want to, then that is not only going to have an effect on my mental and physical health, but also make me really pissed at whoever's making me do this.

So I come in to work already in a bad mood, as well as being tired. For at least the first couple of hours of the day I'm not going to be working at full capacity because half of me is still wishing I was in bed. And that's the same for all those people who are naturally inclined to sleep late and get up late.

And it could be so easily solved. What if, instead of all workers coming in at 9 and leaving at half 5, we had a system in place where each employee could say whether they were an early bird or a night owl? Let the early birds keep working the same hours they do now and let the night owls come in a couple of hours later, and leave a couple of hours later. Still have everyone working the same number of hours, just some people will work 9 to half 5 and others will work 11 to half 7. As long as everyone's working the same number of hours, what difference does it make what time they start and finish?

The benefits would be huge. Staff would be happier because the night owls would be better rested and the early birds wouldn't have to hear their moral lowering complaining or watch them yawn all the way through a morning meeting. And people get to work at times that they know they work better in. Not to mention everyone becoming much healthier. If you can come in to work at a time of your choosing, that not only gives you enough time to sleep as much as you need, you don't have to rush to get ready in the mornings. You can take your time. Personally, I haven't eaten breakfast since I was 16. That's just not a meal that exists for me any more because I choose to spend that time getting more sleep. But if I didn't have to try and shave down that time between waking up and going to work, then I'm sure I'd enjoy a nice, leisurely breakfast and be healthier and more alert in the mornings because of it. PLUS there'd be no more rush hour traffic, reducing road rage, stress and accidents. If this was implemented everywhere then as a nation we'd be happier, healthier and less prone to stress, depression and other anxieties that can be caused by lack of sleep.

IN ADDITION TO ALL OF THAT there's a massive bonus benefit to literally everyone. Think about all the things you have to do outside work. Maybe you have to take your car to the garage. Maybe you have to get a haircut. Maybe you have to go to the bank. As it stands all these places operate on the exact same hours that everyone works. Need to go to the post office? Guess you'll have to do it on your lunch break. Oh, but you also have a dentist appointment on the other side of town at that point. And when exactly are you going to have lunch? Well you'll just have to grab what you can and shove it down as you rush back in to work.

But if work hours are more spread out across the day, then they're more spread out for everyone. Say you're an early bird. You wake up (naturally) at 6am. You go in to work at 7.30 and you finish at 4 in the afternoon. Need to do all those other jobs? No problem. There's a night owl garage that you can take your car to at 8pm, just after you've been to post that thing at the 24 hour post office and before your 9 O'clock dentist appointment.

Just think about how easy the internet made shopping. You can go on Amazon in the middle of the night and browse the new DVDs. Now imagine everything works on that basis. Imagine we operated in a fully 24 hour commercial society. Imagine not having to think about when things are going to be open, and trying to fit everything you need to do in to those time restraints.

Enough of these ridiculous 9-5.30 working hours. Let people decide whether they want to work early in the day or late, and let the working hours take up a wider part of the day. The nation will be happier, healthier, less stressed, less depressed and much, much less tired.

When is a fag not a fag?

2011-11-09T10:06:00.001Z

This week Brett Ratner stood down as producer of the Oscars 2012.

Since I don't know Brett Ratner, don't care about the production of the Oscars and have absolutely no opinion on what kind of a job the former would have done on the latter, this normally wouldn't be a story that I would focus on in any way. However, what caught my attention was the reason Ratner had to resign and the growing controversy over things he said at the weekend - specifically the line "rehearsal is for fags".

In a press release from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS) last night, they said that "Brett is a good person, but his comments were unacceptable. We all hope this will be an opportunity to raise awareness about the harm that is caused by reckless and insensitive remarks, regardless of the intent."

There. That last line. That's what bothers me. "Regardless of Intent". If everyone's going to accept that the intent to offend a group of people wasn't there, then how can they still get incensed by it? This man has used an, albeit arrogant, phrase that contains a term that is said by hundreds of people all over the goddamn world every day in a non-specific derogation and has been forced to resign from his position because of it.

Everyone in the world knows that he didn't mean it in an anti-gay way. But everyone's still acting like he stood up on a stage and announced his hatred for the homosexual community. Because people love being offended. We love this sort of story. Just a couple of weeks ago half of twitter was up in arms because of Ricky Gervais's use of the word "mongs". Never mind that Gervais was unaware that the connotations between that word and sufferers of down syndrome still existed, due to it not actually having been used that way for the last twenty years. And never mind that, again, there was no intent of offending or putting down those with down syndrome. As soon as the word's out there people go out of their way to be offended by it.

"We all hope this will be an opportunity to raise awareness about the harm that is caused by reckless and insensitive remarks, regardless of the intent." What is there to raise awareness of? Who is actually harmed by this? If there really is anyone crying that Brett Ratner hurt them by using a word that in another context could also be used against them, then as a society we have some much bigger problems.

Fag doesn't have the same meaning in the UK as in America. Its most common usage here is as a slang word for cigarettes. If I went to the USA and said someone had "gone out for a fag" I would like to think that a simple explanation of what I meant would be enough to defuse the situation of confusion that would inevitably arise. But if everyone's going to get upset about even using the word in the first place, regardless of intent, then what am I supposed to do when they all come for me for using a colloquialism from my native land?

Intent is important. Ignoring it is what causes problems.

If you're in a narrow hallway and someone carelessly swings around and elbows you in the stomach, you don't berate them, or try and hit them back, or report them for abuse. Because there was no intent to hurt you.

Why is this not the same for words?

5 minute poem #3 - The world

2011-10-22T01:16:00.000+01:00

Sometimes you think the day's over.
Sometimes you think it's all been done.
Sometimes you think you've seen it all.
Then, in a second, the world changes.

A conversation I didn't have.

2011-10-21T13:56:00.005+01:00

I'm sitting at my desk, watching the latest edit of the video on the duchess spruce christmas tree and preparing to record a voiceover for it.

SIDENOTE: I make promotional videos of Christmas Trees. This is my job.

My extremely attractive co-worker - let's call her Natalie - looks across the desk at me.

"Nick," she says, "what exactly are you doing?"

"Well Natalie, I'm watching the latest edit of my most recent video on the duchess spruce christmas tree and preparing to record a voiceover for it. This, you see, is my job".

"Yes Nick," she replies patiently, "but why are you doing this?"

"Well you see, Natalie, these videos need to go online so that people can see what our trees are like and choose to buy them this Christmas. For this to happen someone has to create the videos and, as I believe I have already mentioned, that job is mine."

"Yes Nick," she replies again, "but why are you doing this and not working for the BBC or the Times or any of those other big, reputable news organisations. Weren't you at one point aiming to be a journalist?"

"And broadcaster. Well, either really."

"Journalist and/or broadcaster then. Why aren't you doing that?"

"Well you see Natalie, as it turns out it's very hard to get a job in this area. All of these big, reputable organisations want someone with experience."

"Ah, and that's a problem for you, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Because you don't have any."

"Exactly."

"Alright then". Natalie goes back to her work and I continue looking at christmas trees. A moment later she looks up again.

"Nick," she says, "why don't you get some experience?"

"Because Natalie," I reply, "It's very hard to get any experience when all the places that you could gain experience from already require you to have some experience."

"Ah, I see. So it's a bit like Catch 22."

"No, it has nothing to do with World War II."

"But Nick," she persists "can't you do some free work experience on a local level, or for any of the millions of online publications that exist?"

"Well of course I could, Natalie, and I have on occasion been known to write articles for other people, or indeed create my own website to showcase my written work, but unfortunately the time it takes to write these sorts of things is considerable and much more financially beneficial when spent filming Christmas Trees, believe it or not."

"It just seems to me that if you want to actually get anywhere and do what you've been wanting to do for so long, you should be doing all you can to make it a reality."

"Well I also make some stupid sketches sometimes. It's not the best, but at least I can use them to show off my filming and editing skills".

"Yes but Nick someone with your impressive array of abilities as well as your natural charisma, intelligence and wit should really be utilising these skills professionally. Not just for yourself, but for the rest of us who want to be witness to everything you could become."

It may be clear to you now that Natalie is not, in fact, a real person and I actually work alone.

"Natalie, that would be lovely and, much as I dearly love working with you, I would be lying if I said I didn't want to be working on bigger and better things. But with the economy the way it is with the unemployment rate rising to over 21% amongst my age group, and me aiming to break in to one of the most competitive job areas there is, do I really have a hope?"

"Nick, just take a look at yourself. You're wearing the same T-shirt you've worn to work on three other days this week. You haven't shaved for nearly two weeks. You haven't had a haircut since last January. You're still wearing the wristband from Leeds Festival 2008. Your desk is covered with empty water bottles and sandwich wrappers.

"OK, OK, I see what you're trying to do. But aren't you twisting things around a bit? Maybe I'm like that because I'm already working here and I don't have to look smart or live in a hygienic environment."

"But Nick you don't want any of that either. Look a little way down through this blog."

"Oh, you mean my unfinished story?"

"No, that's stupid, never go near that again. Leave it to rot. Look at where you made your new years resolutions."

"Oh."

"Look at the person you wanted to be. You wanted to move out and live on your own."

"I will when I get a job."

"You wanted to write something proper."

"I'm working on some stuff."

"You wanted to re-invent yourself as Don Draper."

"OK, well I drink whisky out of a glass with ice now, not straight from the bottle. That's one step closer right?"

"No."

"Well...I did grow my hair back! That was on there! And I can sort of play a few more guitar chords. And I got over my unhealthy obsession with...oh..."

"The top point - priority number one - was to find a proper job that you actually wanted to do."

"Well maybe I was being naive then. Maybe I didn't realise that I was taking on an impossible task. There are hundreds of people out there just like me, who are in the exact same situation."

"Exactly Nick. Just think about those other 16-24 year olds that make up that 21%. How many of them do you think are in the same condition? How many do you think wear band T-shirts every day and focus on trivialities instead of what was really important? Now I may be just a humble literary device representing your own nagging sense of self-worth, but maybe if you smartened up, focused yourself on what you really wanted to do, actually did some proper work towards it, applied for some voluntary placements, got to know people within the business, and stopped spending your lunch hour writing down hypothetical conversations with your imaginary co-worker who's resemblance to Natalie Portman isn't as subtly implied as you think, you might actually demonstrate some worth and make something of yourself."

I look straight at her. She's right. I can't argue with her. Mostly because the points she made have just come from my own head.

"You're right Natalie. Wow, if only everyone had this kind of flu induced, self-referential, celebrity-based epiphany about their own professional life. We could probably come up with the kind of radical, imaginative solutions needed to get us through this dark financial point in the country's history."

I look around the office, but Natalie's gone. I'm alone again with the christmas trees. I guess she had other people to help...

I started a new thing.

2011-08-11T19:00:00.004+01:00

It my continuing attempts to attract attention to myself on the internet I've started a video sketch website with my brother. We operate under the name Gatsby & Tibbs and write, direct, and star in our own comedy sketches.
We finished our first sketch a couple of weeks ago, after about a months work. Seriously, these things take ages. I think it's only about 4 and a half minutes long but there must have been at least 15 hours worth of editing put in to it.
But it was fun and it came out looking pretty good, so you should all go and see it now while we make some others.

The website can be found at http://gatsbyandtibbs.wordpress.com or you can watch our first sketch below the jump.

5 minute poem #2 - Strangers.

2011-03-04T00:48:00.000Z

He stared at her
Over the ocean,
Through the mountains
He could see.

She felt a chill
Along her skin
In her stomach.
She could feel.

They thought of each other
From far away
From deep within
They knew.

He stopped looking
She stopped feeling
They stopped thinking
They were lost.

If I only knew...(it wouldn't make a difference)

2011-03-03T23:55:00.002Z

Here are some things that no-one told me when I left university (but probably should have done).

"You will be applying for jobs for at least the next six months. 95% of these will never get back to you. You will be checking your emails every half an hour for at least a month after the deadline to see if they do before you finally accept this.

4.5% of these will straight up reject you. You will think this feels better than not knowing, but it won't.

0.45 of these will offer you a glimpse of hope - maybe by asking for more information or getting you to complete a test. This will be a ray of sunshine and you will think that finally, FINALLY, something is happening. Then you will never hear from them again.

0.05% of these will invite you to an interview. You will prepare for this every moment of every day until it starts. You will practice answers. You will think about how you are going to sit and where you are going to look. People are going to give you advice that you are unsure of. You will consider every possible thing they could ask you, and any follow up questions they could get from your answers. And when you get there they will ask you something completely different, something that you hadn't planned for and have no idea how to answer and you will try to give the best possible response you can and they will think you haven't prepared. And after a couple of days of solidly reviewing that 20 minute session in your head they will reject you. And you will be back to square one.

You will have to write a CV. You will not know how to write a CV. You will have to change this CV every time you apply for a different type of job. You will have to write cover letters. You will never know what the best thing to put in these is.

Most of the next few months will be spent in uncertainty. You will never know exactly which jobs to apply for. You will never know if you actually are qualified or experienced enough to do them. You will never know if they're not hiring you because you're not able to do the job or if you're just not showing the right things in your applications. You will never know exactly what each one is looking for.

You will try desparately to do something new, something different, just to put on your CV. You will never know if this helps.

You will have considered the fact that unemployment is going through the roof. That there are fewer and fewer jobs available and that you are looking at things in a highly competitive area. It will still surprise you how difficult it is to find anything.

You will not know if you are applying for the right things. Somewhere along the line you will realise that you have no idea exactly what it is you want to do. You will apply for some strange jobs that you hope you never hear back from. Sometimes you will just want anything even vaguely related to what you like doing. Sometimes you will be picky and only look at jobs you are sure will be good, even though you will be massively inexperienced/underqualified to do them.

You will be tired. All the time. You will be tired of living at home. You will be tired of never doing anything. You will be tired of applications. You will be tired of jobsites. You will be tired of CVs. You will be tired of answering stupid questions without knowing what the answer is.

It will be monstrously depressing and unbearably boring, without stop, for months.
And you will not know if you are ever going to get anywhere.

You will, however, know one thing.

You won't want to go back to university."

New Years Resolutions 2011 (Or: Holy Shit it's 2011 Already!)

2011-01-19T00:40:00.001Z

Holy shit it's 2011 already. I'm sure if someone asked me when I was a kid what I'd be doing by this point my answer would have been something like "living on the moon" or "being a super-rich crimefighter with his own robot best friend" or "dead".

But like everyone who isn't getting Natalie Portman pregnant I feel I have let down my inner child. Well I will stand for that no more. 2011 is the year I will clean my act up. This year I vow to do the following:

Get an actual job - This is priority number 1. I will keep applying and keep practicing interview skills so I don't come off like a gibbering retard until I finally start a job that I am actually willing to get up in the morning and do.
Find an awesome place to live - Everyone has to move out of their parents house sometime, and I've already done it twice. Once I get a job I can find somewhere awesome in that area and then hopefully third time will be the charm.
Actually learn to play one of the two guitars I now own - Yeah...this doesn't require any further explanation. I'm just lazy.
Write something proper that can actually be published in some form - I have the ideas, I have the skill, I have the motivation and I enjoy doing it. Why the hell have I not done anything significant with this yet?
Write more Shame About the Video posts - OK, I think my Christmas excuse is used up now. Time to actually start writing some things, and actually trying to keep this running regular posts. Then it can gain readers and can branch out and grow.
Grow all my hair back
Get over my unhealthy obsession with Natalie Portman - She has a person inside her now. Black Swan is the final hurrah. Then it's time to accept that it's never going to happen and move on.
Start a band - After four unsuccessful years I have a good feeling that 2011 will see my musical debut.
Buy the "Friends" boxset - It's time.
Get over my unhealthy obsession with Friends - It's time.
Continue my totally healthy obsession with Mad Men
Blog more about Mad Men
Make people watch Mad Men
Reinvent myself as a cross between Don Draper and Hank Moody - Only with less sex because otherwise Emily will hurt me...
Go and live in a foreign country again - That was fun and I think people are getting tired of me always bringing up Hong Kong in casual conversation
Continue wild experimentation with facial hair/not being bothered to shave
Reinvent myself again as a cross between Chuck Klosterman and Chris Nolan - Because your influences should probably be real people...
Make/Find enough money to not have to stare at the prices of a bottle of whisky in the shop looking for the cheapest one. - Because if you're just going to pick out Jack Daniels anyway, at least stop feeling bad about it.
Delete Facebook - Yeah right...
Blog about more interesting stuff and less self-involved whining.

Looks like I have a busy, busy year ahead of me.

Oh, one more:

Stop trying to do things three weeks too late.

Shit.

5 minute poem #1 - Anticipation

2010-11-15T01:30:00.007Z

We are tiny,
We are nothing,
They wait for us.

We are clueless,
We are hungry,
We wait for them to show us.

We are lonely,
We are angry,
We wait for them to care.

We are confused,
We are stupid,
We wait for nothing.

We are lost,
We are helpless,
We wait for anything.

We are trapped,
We are tired,
We wait for something new.

We are still,
We are quiet,
We wait for something more.

We are old,
We are nothing,
We wait for life to start.

Sometimes I realise that I really am very lazy.

2010-11-02T00:48:00.019Z

I can't do this:

Or this:

Or this:

Or this:

Or this:

Or this:

But I will never have a good reason why.

An Update.

2010-09-29T21:26:00.003+01:00

In the last few weeks I have dropped out of university, started a new blog here that I'm already failing at updating as regularly as I'm supposed to even though I'm the one who decides how often that should be, and am spending my days applying for writing jobs, journalist jobs, tv production jobs, radio jobs, media internships and anything else vaguely relating to any of those, most of which are at companies that I've never even heard of.

Should I be using this time to write a great novel, or a screenplay, or even the blogs that I'm already supposed to be writing? Or even finding some other work to keep me going while I apply for things I want to do? Probably. But instead the most I'll write is an introspective look at what I'm doing now for the benefit of no-one.

I am officially the most useless person I know.

University - The Final Complaint

2010-09-15T02:25:00.002+01:00

It's all a game. You do well at school; you get to progress to college/sixth form. You do well there; you get to progress to university. You do well there; you get to do the job you want and have a wonderful happy life and blah blah blah.

Screw that. I'm done with the game. I'm opting for the alternative method. I'm throwing the board in the air and I'm not playing any more. Some say that's quitting, some say it's cheating. I say fuck them. You can all carry on with the game if you want, but I've had enough of it now. It's gone on too long and there's nothing worth winning at the end of it.

Come and see me when you've finished playing. Let's see who wins.

The Mad Men Drinking Game

2010-08-23T01:49:00.008+01:00

Ah Mad Men. The best show currently on TV (now that Lost is over). It's exciting, it's dramatic, it's beautiful and it makes you want to drink and smoke all day so you can be like the cool kids.

So why not start while watching?

You will need:

1 x bottle of your preferred whisky (preferably scotch or, if you wish to enjoy the authentic Don Draper experience, rye).
1/2 x bottle of your preferred vodka.
1 x bottle of red wine.
2 x packets of cigarettes (give or take, depending on how good a chain-smoker you are).
1 x rather suave suit.

Put on the suit, pour your first drink and light your first cigarette. You are now ready to play the Mad Men drinking game.

Cigarettes must be smoked continuously throughout the program until you can no longer see the screen through the haze of smoke. Spirits must be drunk straight, over ice

Every time a character drinks, you drink. Try and match what you're drinking to what the character is drinking for bonus points (drink whisky when they have a whisky-based cocktail, Vodka for martinis and wine for whatever a woman is drinking). If they down the drink, you down the drink.

Every time Don Draper stares at someone silently for what would be an unusual amount of time in real life: drink whisky.

Every time a character has sex/goes off screen to have sex: drink.

If one of the individuals engaging in said sex is doing so whilst currently in a relationship with another character: finish the drink.

Every time something condescending/offensive is said to/about a woman/black person: drink.

Every time Roger Stirling has some inappropriate/hilarious one-liner (basically whenever he says anything): down a vodka.

Any time Pete acts in a way that makes you wonder why no-one's punched him in the face yet: drink.

Any time Harry does something clumsy/stupid: drink.

Any time Don Draper does something outrageously cool that makes you wish you were just a little bit more like him: down a whisky.

Any time Betty Draper does something that makes you question her sanity: drink wine.

Any time Betty Draper abuses one of her children: down the wine.

Any time Don Draper has a nap at work: drink until he wakes up.

Any time there is a sudden gory moment that is otherwise unexpected in a show like this: down the whisky, then the vodka, then drink some wine, then down another whisky. For the sake of whoever just got mutilated...

Any time someone mentions a holiday: drink.

Any time anyone does anything that would be considered inappropriate and/or shocking in modern society: drink.

Any time a character who was a big part of one or two episodes in the past before disappearing completely suddenly shows up again: celebrate their return with a drink.

More rules when I think of them. Play the game right and your lungs and liver will be just as bad as every character's on the show.

Finding Championship Vinyl

2010-06-21T23:16:00.009+01:00

As a young, 21st century man I find myself wandering round shops a lot (even when I have no money - in the past 10 months the only things I've actually bought for myself are a Pearl Jam CD and a Faith No More CD, and only because they were both under the two for £10 section and were both double disc sets, therefore obviously meaning a victory against HMV for me) and two types of store I can never resist walking in to and wandering around are small record shops and memorabilia shops. The reason this is notable is that I don't believe I have ever bought anything from either of these, and probably never will. This is especially true for the latter where I have spent countless hours staring at models of Star Wars characters or vintage mugs with the Sex Pistols on them, but never quite understood why I would want to spend so much money on them. T-shirts maybe, if they feature a band that is no longer around and I couldn't just pick up a T-shirt at one of their gigs, but there comes a point when you are just shelling out all your pennies for something rather pointless. And that's the point that, I'm happy to say, I decide I'd rather walk out of the shop empty handed and spend my pennies on overpriced coffee instead.

Then there are record shops. I will always go in to one, especially if it looks like the sort of place where you could find rare recordings of famous gigs. Unfortunately I have no idea what rare pieces I'm supposed to be looking for, so usually I'll just skim through the CDs rather randomly for a while. Then I'll look through all the old vinyl records, despite the fact that I don't own a vinyl player, before leaving the shop feeling superior because I am that guy who's supporting the small record stores and laughs at your corporate chains promoting the mainstream, commercial music. Except then I'll go and buy things at HMV anyway because it's cheaper and set out in an easy-to-find-what-you're-looking-for way. Plus I can get student discount there.

The point is that there is a certain feeling you get from just being in that kind of shop. In there I can pretend I am an over-intellectualised rock aficionado hipster who collects music that no-one else even knows about. In that tiny shop I am John Cusack's character from High Fidelity, even if I don't have a categorised record collection or if I haven't read 'Johnny Cash's autobiography "Cash" by Johnny Cash' or if I'm not friends with Jack Black. For a few minutes I am the sort of person who would do all those things, as well as arrange things autobiographically and make top five lists about girls who break my heart. And you might think it seems strange to want to be that person. That person sounds horrendous. But there's a reason that film made $47 million, and a reason people love John Cusack.

Why I can't leave Facebook - Confessions of an addict.

2010-05-14T12:26:00.009+01:00

Everyone in the virtual world should read this http://www.overthinkingit.com/2010/05/13/why-i-left-facebook/. Go and do it now, and then come back here and you'll hopefully be in the right mood to read my take on the topic.

So here's a thing that I used to say all the time, but recently have actively avoided mentioning because it reveals my secret identity as super-hypocrite:

I fucking hate Facebook.

I honestly, really do. There are a number of reasons why, but it's mostly just because Facebook is really very boring. Looking through my 'news feed' I see a massive jumble of photographs of other people's nights out*, mindless 'groups' with no purpose other than the shitty joke/'quirky' habit that everyone fucking has in the title, and detached, badly spelled one liners about whatever that individual has done so far today. And there comes a point when you realise that you really just don't care about any of this, even a little bit. But even though I'm well aware of this, I've still 'liked' two of those updates and commented on a third. And put another one of my own up, using the same quote that I wrote in the footnote of this page. Why? Because social networking sites have convinced me that I need to constantly do these things to remind my friends that I'm still alive and mentally functional. And also because I'm a sick, empty, ridiculous man who just wants some attention.

So I'm stuck in this ridiculous paradox where I actively loathe the thing I willingly spend copious amounts of time taking part in.

And I want to delete my Facebook. I really do. I want to follow in the footsteps of the writer of the above link and live a life without Facebook (although I'd also get rid of myspace and continue never getting twitter). But I can't. I'm a full blown Facebook addict. Even now I have a separate tab open with Facebook in it. I have a Facebook app on my desktop that tells me when I have messages and friend requests. When I'm not in sight of a computer I will use Facebook on my mobile. And throughout this entire piece I have been giving Facebook a capital 'F' that it surely does not deserve.

And it truly is an addiction. As much as I want to delete my Facebook and live a life without social networking, the thought of actually doing so terrifies me. I start to justify using it to myself. "How will I know when someone's planning a party or a night out?", "How will I know if something major happens to someone I know?"**, "What if I lose all my friends because I'm not able to contact them as easily on a daily basis?" etc. And of course it's all ridiculous, but it's easier to believe that than it is to admit that I have a severe, retarded problem.

I think back to when I first got Facebook and why, after months of restraint, I finally gave in and signed up. I got it because 1) I was living in Hong Kong at the time, 6000 miles away from everyone I knew, and I really did need a way of keeping in contact with my friends, and 2) because my girlfriend signed me up. That was a year and a half ago. In a year and a half, Facebook's been through three redesigns, groups have turned from being sorts of clubs you were part of to being the unholy mess of retardedness that we have now, I've gained 156 friends, 153 photos of me have been uploaded, and I've been reduced to a pathetic mess who needs to check his page several times a day.

I want to delete my Facebook profile. But I also want to drop out of university, move to a different country, leave everything behind and travel the world. But there's too much keeping me home, and too much keeping me on Facebook.

One day I will delete my Facebook profile. And on that day I shall begin a new and better life. But for now, I shall continue to be an unhappy addict, and I shall post the hypocritical link to this piece on my Facebook page.

*As Dennis Reynolds says in the very first episode of 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia': "If I'm not in any of them and nobody's having sex, I just don't care."

**By this I mean if someone ends up in the hospital or goes to live in Uzbekistan, not if someone pulls the hot girl behind the bar. Actual important things.

Summer of Rock

2010-04-01T00:35:00.008+01:00

Between May and August 2010 I will be attending 3 festivals (Download, Leeds and Bilbao BBK Live - now renamed "Hobbitfest") and a number of gigs. At these places I will be seeing most, if not all, of the following bands:

Last Updated 29/04/10*

AC/DC
Pearl Jam
Aerosmith
Rage Against the Machine
Guns 'n' Roses
Faith No More
Bon Jovi
Pixies
Queens of the Stone Age
Manic Street Preachers
Them Crooked Vultures
Billy Idol
Slash
Motorhead
Jet
Rammstein
Slayer
Hole
Lostprophets
Billy Talent
Megadeth
Gogol Bordello (3 times)
Airbourne
Wolfmother
Coheed and Cambria (possibly twice)
Rise Against
Paul Weller
Alice in Chains
Dropkick Murphys
Biffy Clyro
The Futureheads (probably)
Lightspeed Champion (possibly)
NOFX
Deftones
Steel Panther
Ratt
Bullet for my Valentine
The Black Keys

And a whole lot more.

Impressive, no? I'm so freaking excited about this summer.

*Yes, I actually have to update this post as more and more awesomeness keeps getting added to this summer. Any more and my head might just explode.

A More Convenient Truth.

2010-02-23T00:09:00.002Z

It's snowing in Salford again. At first it was a novelty, it was exciting - as snowfalls have been on all their infrequent occurrences in the past. But now it's getting a bit much. Just about everyone I know is bored of the snow now, and the forecast for more is met with despairing groans. The ridiculous weather has made this winter worse than any before it, and summer can not come too soon.

And it's not just here. I spent the last week in Spain, where they've had more rain and colder temperatures in the past two months than in many people's lifetimes. Washington DC is buried somewhere beneath an iceburg. And the Pope's left shivering in his dress as Rome is covered with fresh Italian snow.

Clearly there is no denying it. Climate Change is affecting us. Hugely.

And what's causing it? What has changed in recent times that has influenced the world in such a way that we've all been freezing for three months? Well it's quite obvious really. The cause of everyones discomfort comes from the number of people trying to save energy and reduce their carbon footprint.

The evidence is all there. People turn off their electrics, use energy saving lightbulbs and listen to Al Gore and suddenly we're all stuck with a crappy winter that doesn't appear to be ending any time soon.

So I leave you with this message: Turn your televisions back on. Light up your LEDs. Buy some proper lightbulbs. And together, maybe we can put an end to climate change.

You have the power. Use it. A lot.

Graphs don't lie*.

*Graph not based on any factual evidence.

Are You Ready for Change?

2010-02-22T16:57:00.001Z

4am. (Or: Why I don't often write poetry)

2010-02-09T03:44:00.000Z

Fake light illuminates a metal roof,
Windows are mirrors now.
The sounds are peaceful,
And the silence is full of noise.

Creatures chase after their shadows,
Trees become ghosts.
The darkness seems clearer,
Than the dismal light of day.

Bottles tell tales of the night's depravity
As they roll under my feet.
Now there is no-one,
Only their debris left behind.

Fake light shows the fake world.
The street is orange,
Even the clouds have changed.
The night should not be like this.

Stroh

2010-02-07T20:38:00.000Z

Burning death in a bottle.

Save me some hind shank.

2010-01-18T22:30:00.000Z

For Christmas I received the new Chuck Klosterman book "Eating the Dinosaur", and I would like to take a moment to recommend this, and every other book Klosterman has written, to everyone who stumbles across this blog.

Guess who just learned how to make html links?

Chuck Klosterman is an American journalist whose numerous books on varying aspects of pop-culture have been blowing my mind for some time now. This is the newest one and is probably the second best one yet*. Each chapter is a self-contained essay with one overall theme focused on by several smaller, interconnecting topics. There's a chapter on "In Utero" that somehow has surprisingly little to do with Nirvana. A chapter on sincerity vs irony and people who can only function literally that makes me want to listen to Weezer (a lot). And there's a chapter that's sort of about the long-term disadvantages of the increasing advancement of technology and sort of about the unabomber that somehow managed to connect to my life and thoughts on both a long and short term level so perfectly that I might have thought it had been written by me if I wasn't convinced that I couldn't write anywhere near as well or as knowledgeably as that.

There's also some stuff about American Football and Basketball that I didn't care about as much, but they can still be an interesting read (and some point out where people not interested in this shit should just stop reading and skip to the next chapter - which is nice).

In short - everyone should read this book. Otherwise I'm in danger of being forever misunderstood. And I mean that in a thoroughly Rivers Cuomo-esque sense.

*The best being 2005s "Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a true story", which tells the tale of Klostermans cross country road trip visiting the death sites of various rockstars, and his thoughts on everything from ex-girlfriends to suicide to prehistoric mastodons that come up on the way.

The Frustrations of Student Life

2009-12-01T23:16:00.000Z

University.

It's just a bullshit place to go when you're too old for bullshit school and too young for a bullshit job. The only benefit of it is that it doesn't matter about your actual age, just the age you feel. Middle aged failures take degrees as "mature" students because they're still too mentally young for the real world and they've been falsely led to believe that this will help them. No-one's pointed out to them that "mature student" is an oxymoron.

But university is not a place to grow up. And, contrary to what most people think, it's not a place to celebrate your youth. It's the middle point in life - only not in the middle. It's the transitional period between virginity and addiction. This is no secret, but the common belief is that this passage eases the transition between the two. This is not true. It just prolongs it. Like an rabbit scurrying down a hole after a fox has bitten it's leg off. It's safe, but it's still going to die.

University isn't even a place to learn. At least not any more. There you simply find the exact same problems there were when you were at school. All you learn is how to pass exams. After that, you can forget it. Knowledge doesn't come from places of learning. Knowledge comes from everywhere else. If you're lucky, the most you'll learn as a student is that nothing will ever live up to its hype and vodka-redbulls are for fags.

But not everyone has these revelations.

The untitled story shall henceforth cease to be untitled!

2009-05-19T10:50:00.000+01:00

Yes, I have finally decided what my story is going to be called.

Allow me to introduce you to the wonder that shall hereby be known as:

How to Deal with a Curse of Lamentable Tribulation

Compelling, no? Don't you just want to read it?
Well the first three chapters are right here, and further ones shall be added as they are written. Go and check it out.

Chapter 1: http://nwithers.blogspot.com/2009/03/chapter-1-jake.html
Chapter 2: http://nwithers.blogspot.com/2009/03/untitled-story-chapter-2-chocolate.html
Chapter 3: http://nwithers.blogspot.com/2009/04/untitled-story-difficult-third-chapter.html

Disclaimer: I reserve the right to change this title whenever and for whatever reason I feel like. It could be because I've thought of a better one, it could be because I decide to take the story in a different direction than would accurately fit the title, or I could just do it on a whim because I'm bored. That's the level of commitment I'm putting in to this.

OK, so this is the third time I've changed the title already. The others sucked. This one does not suck quite so much.

Untitled Story - The Difficult Third Chapter - The Tiara

2009-05-12T11:05:00.000+01:00

Note: Chapters 1 & 2 of this story can be found deep with the archives of this blog, because I just don't feel like making it any easier for you to read.

I didn't know what to say.

"I don't know what to say," I said.

I turned to Matt. He looked just as surprised as I was. I savoured the moment, knowing that all too soon the shock would wear off and he'd be ridiculing me again. Really I was impressed that I'd managed to get over it faster than he had. I'd already thought of three princess-based jokes that would have been perfect for the situation, had it been anyone else holding the tiara.

"Say something..." he whispered to me.

"But I don't know what..." I replied.

I turned back to the old lady. She was already walking back in to the other room.

"Be careful with that," she said over her shoulder "it's very valuable."

"Um, excuse me," I said, running after her . "This is obviously very...er...lovely and everything...but I'm not sure I:-"

"Oh, but you must take it!" she interrupted. "It is a gift, a token of thanks for your heroism. I can not let you go unrewarded, and one should not turn down such an offer. Not accepting this valuable treat would be both foolish and rude!" She seemed to be getting steadily more worked up as she spoke, almost as though she couldn't wait to be rid of the damn thing. Well that was nice. I don't know much about rewards, truth be told I've never offered anyone so much as a pat on the head for doing something, but I'm fairly sure giving someone some old piece of crap you just don't want lying around your house anymore isn't the standard procedure for expressing how thankful you are to them. I mean I was a hero, not a hobo!

"Well, it's just...when you said a reward I was expecting something a little more...cash-like." Smooth.

"Ha! Money? Do I look like I have money to give away?" I looked around the enormous hallway we were in, with the two marble stairways that met in the middle and the antique chandelier swinging gently above our heads, as the 9 foot oak grandfather clock ticked away next to the jewel-encrusted mirror. I decided not to answer the question.

"My husband spent all his money going off on his adventures. Everything you see here was found or given to him on his travels. Even the house came from a little known, yet exceedingly wealthy, African village. The head of the village had it transported over here by boat. My husband never made a penny for all his work! Now please, you have your prize - now leave me."

And with that she flung herself up the stairs, rather impressively for someone her age, and disappeared through one of the many doors at the top. Matt walked in from the kitchen and we silently looked at each other for a few moments before turning to leave.

**********************************

"A tiara?"

I nodded my head glumly.

"Can I see it?"

I shook my head glumly.

"Why not?"

I shrugged my shoulders glumly. I don't know why I did this, I suppose I just wasn't in the mood to talk. Also I was trying to convey the extent of my glumness to Ashleigh in the hope of receiving a sympathy hug, or possibly a sympathy boob flash.

"Oh stop being such a baby" she said, hitting my in the arm in a less than sympathetic way. What a bitch. "Come on, show it to me."

I sighed (glumly) and lifted the goddamn thing out of my backpack. It was fairly heavy for its size, with two neat rows of green and blue jewels following the swirls and loops of the silver wire frame that would wrap around the head of the overpriced girlfriend of some pretentious king in some ridiculous country no-one even cares about. A large red ruby sat in the middle, with more of the green and blue stones circling around it - just in case it wasn't shiny enough for you to notice. It was very nice I supposed. In a shitty, girly, wannabe-princess, completely-inappropriate-for-an-eighteen-year-old-very-manly-lifeguard-who'd-just-saved-your-life way. Ashleigh tried it on.

"How do I look?" She asked.

'Like a heart-stoppingly beautiful princess that a thousand brave knights of olde England would risk their mothers' lives to win the heart of just for a second,' I thought. "Like some drunk bitch on a hen night," I said. I always found it a mystery why girls never seemed to want to go out with me. Ashleigh hit me again as Matt approached us, setting down two pints for himself and me and a vodka & coke for Ashleigh.

"You owe me two-fifty." he said, sitting down.

"I'll pay you in tiaras."

"Sod off."

"Am I not even allowed a free sympathy beer?"

"Sod off more, you don't get sympathy for being given a billion pound present."

"I don't want it! You can have it for the beer!"

"Oh no, I couldn't take the princess's tiara from her. Not when she'd look so pretty wearing it." He grabbed the tiara from Ashleigh's head
and forced it on to mine. Ashleigh somehow managed to produce a camera from somewhere and snap a picture in the half a second it took me to throw the thing off. Why do girls always have cameras in pubs? How many pictures of yourself looking sweaty and drunk in a dark, crowded room do you really need? I didn't know, but I certainly hoped it was enough to hide the one she'd just taken once it was inevitably added to the brain-melting overload of pointless shit that is facebook. I hated facebook. And cameras. And tiaras. And stupid beautiful girls who tormented me with their cruelness and wonderful, untouchable boobs.

"Fuck you!" I shouted loudly, which of course just alerted the entire pub to the less-than-manly tiara that I was now desperately flinging from my head, straight towards the whirling ceiling fan. There were gasps and laughter from strangers all around me, as the three of us were showered in brightly coloured stones, before the battered lump of silver shot back down towards my gaping, horrified mouth.

It hurt.

****************************************************

Somehow, over the next two days, Matt had convinced me to actually pay money to have my garish headpiece repaired. We'd collected all the pieces from around the table at the pub and - after restraining myself from simply throwing them all in the bin - had taken it back home where I'd spent the next couple of hours bashing the framework back in to place with a hammer and re-attaching the jewels with super glue while Matt hovered around me offering tips on the best way to put the thing back together. It was he who had stopped me getting rid of the pieces, pointing out the probable value of such a piece of jewellery and promising unending riches if we managed to make it look like a tiara again. I'd grudgingly agreed. When he wasn't being a dick; Matt could be very sensible about some things. It was just strange how his sensible ideas always seemed more annoying than the alternatives. Needless to say, after all my efforts all I had managed to do was make the silver even more lumpy than it had been before, and superglue several green and blue jewels to my hands. It was decided that this was a job for professionals, and on the basis of "spend money to make money" (Matt's words) we gathered the pieces up again and took them to an antique jewellery repair shop.

Fortunately I lived just round the corner from one.

Unfortunately the unsmiling, thin haired old man at the counter charged me two hundred quid just for the service. I was so close to walking out of the shop and leaving the pieces in the gutter right then, but Matt repeated his "spend money to make money" mantra a few more times to make me stay in there. Also he stood in the doorway and kicked me in the shins until I gave in. Why he assumed I'd share any money I might make from this with him I don't know. I decided right then that if I got some sort of profit back from this I would spend a good portion of it having him deported. For the meantime though I was two hundred pounds out of pocket (Matt had generously donated nothing to my cause) having a broken tiara I hated and never wanted be put back together so I could continue hating and not wanting it.

A week later we went back to the shop to pick it up again. It had been a dull week - since I'd now spent all the money the swimming baths had given me as a hero bonus I found myself with very little to occupy my time with until the next payday. Meanwhile everyone else I knew seemed to be going to gigs, clubs, parties and pubs and having the best week of their lives. I needed some good news from the jeweller, needed him to reassure me that my unwanted tiara was worth enough money for me to retire before I went to uni.

The little bell above the door jingled to announce our entrance to the shop. Sparkling rings, bracelets, necklaces and even an old sceptre greeted our eyes as we walked towards the counter, looking around for the old man who'd served us last time. But from out of the back room came, not an old man, but a beautiful long haired girl. I couldn't help it; I stared at her coming towards us - all legs and breasts. And a face. She moved gracefully over to the counter, a small smile playing across her mouth as she flicked a stray strand of brown hair away from her large, blue eyes. She could have been a model, could have been an angel. She could have been stolen from the best dream I ever had and placed right here in front of me in the conscious world. The time it took her to walk the three steps from the back room to the counter was all the time I needed to fall in love with her.

"Hello there boys, how can I help you?" She asked, looking from me to Matt as if questioning who would be the first one to pluck up the courage to answer her question. I decided to get there before Matt could.

"Yes, hello there also," I said a little quicker than most people usually speak as I offered my most charming smile. She seemed suddenly taken aback, her face falling faster than a bungee-ing hippo. I suddenly remembered the large gap at the front of my charming smile, where the fan-propelled tiara had knocked my tooth out. I hastily stopped smiling and continued.

"Er, yes. We brought in a tiara last week to be repaired...that old guy said it would be done by now...so, er...is it?" I was not doing well.

"Yeah...hang on a sec." She said, looking at me in a way that didn't seem to say 'take me now', as I had hoped she would. She turned back in to the back room, and after a few seconds of rummaging re-emerged with the now restored tiara.

"Brilliant, yeah that's the one." I said. "He also told us he'd be able to value it once it's fixed, could you...er...do that for us too please?" My mind was racing, trying to establish links between expensive jewellery and wooing women. Unbelievably I was coming up with nothing.

"Well actually, I'm afraid this thing appears to be pretty worthless at it is." What? "See the front of it? It looks like the main jewel that should go there is missing. I don't think you'd get a good price for this thing without it."

"What? That's impossible!" I looked down at the tiara. It was true. The large ruby that had stood in the middle of the tiara was gone. But we'd picked up all the pieces in the pub, we'd made sure of it! It took us ages! Could it be at home? No, surely I would have noticed a ruby in my room during the last week. Had it been in the pieces we brought to the shop? I was sure we'd had everything, but it was so hard to tell with it broken in to so many pieces. I looked to Matt in desperation, as if he'd pull the thing out of his pocket singing 'ta-da!' but he looked as dumbfounded as me. I was lost for answers. Somehow, the most precious part of my tiara...

...was missing.

Calculations to help you get the most out of your drinking.

2009-04-06T08:33:00.000+01:00

So I currently live alone in a city where I know very few people at all, and even fewer who like to go out for a drink (I know, they're weird). So when I do go out at night, it's almost always on my own. This time is often spent talking to strangers in bars or something (it's a variation of the "single serving friends" idea that comes from Fight Club), but the actual leaving of my home with the intent of finding a house of beverages to spend the evening therein, as well as all planning towards this end, is undertaken by myself and myself only. This has subsequently lead to my realising of the immense calculations that are often required before embarking upon such a venture.

The problem, as always, is the cost of a night of thoughtless inebriation. Obviously here I could be talking about a number aspects of cost - socially, mentally, physically, retardedly - but today I mean it in a strictly financial way. Booze costs bucks (side note - are Hong Kong dollars also allowed to be referred to as "bucks"? Am I now qualified to use this term? Someone please tell me). Go to any decent bar in Hong Kong and a pint will usually cost around the equivalent of a fiver (curse you falling exchange rate!). So of course, here more than anywhere, it is much more financially settling to get suitably drunk at home before venturing to your local pit of darkness and dredgery. Herein lies the first problem - planning must be done in advance to ensure suitable fluids can be found within your home. No-one likes to have to go through the ordeal of putting pants on just to go on a beer run, only to return home for the half an hour it takes to get through a six-pack before repeating the process so that the actual venturing out for the commencement of the evenings activities can begin - it's just too much effort. So such treats must be procured in advance which of course means that the engagement of the act of planning must be performed some time in advance. The reason I need to complain about this minor irritance is that it takes away the one benefit I have of not having anyone to go out with in the first place. When you're making all the decisions by yourself, the advantage is that you don't have to plan anything ever. You are free to be as spontaneous as you want and being able to just sit up at the end of the second episode of friends on a Wednesday evening and decide to go on a pub crawl without having to send out a hundred texts to people and determine whether they're free/want to go/still like you after the events of Tuesday's pub crawl and then decide a time and a place to meet and all that other rubbish is just very nice sometimes. Having to then realise that you have nothing in the house and your options are to venture down to the shops and buy booze or be willing to spend vast amounts of money on enough drinks to make it all worthwhile kills this somewhat. Unless you are already prepared, then the logistics of such an impromptu idea will kill it somewhat - and being prepared for such a thing means it is no longer impromptu. This is the paradox of spontaneity.

However, these are very minor complaints that obviously never really stand in the way for very long, but they serve as a suitable introduction to my main observation.

Imagine the scenario: It's Wednesday night. Friends has just finished. You decide you want to go out to various bars to watch bands and laugh at old men chatting up hookers. You have a suitable amount of alcoholic substances in your fridge/cupboard. The settings are perfect. You can begin drinking while at home, before venturing out in to the Hong Kong night, safe in the knowledge that you now can not possibly ingest enough alcohol to use up the last of your money.

How much can you drink before you don't want to go out any more?

Yes, this is what I've been building up to. How many drinks does it take before leaving your home to find somewhere else where other drinks can be bought in the company of other people and sometimes bands seems like a bad idea? I've been studying this extensively for some time, and I can confirm that there will always be that point where the option of staying in and drinking alone outweighs the option of not doing. The advantages of the first (comfortable surroundings, your own decision of music/TV programmes/whatever, lack of annoying people, not having to wear pants) will always suddenly seem greater than the advantages of the second (social environment, greater range of drinks, better entertainment, possibilities of ending up in a situation with a previously unknown attractive girl in which you are both not wearing pants*). So you are always faced with the challenge of "how much can I drink to maximise the financial gain brought by drinking what I have at home, while still keeping the desire to go out strong?".

Clearly there is no definitive answer to this. It would be simple if it was just a case of "4 beers and a whisky and you're fine to go", but nothing can ever be that easy. Such things are always subject to a number of variables: what's happened during the day, how long it's been since your last drink, whether or not American Idol's on TV etc. Fortunately due to my dedication to the developing knowledge of the intricacies of drinking I have been working on a mathematical formula for the calculation of this sort of thing.

I hereby formally introduce A formula to represent Nick's theorem of pre-going out drinkability.

X = A - ((T + G + I) / (P/100)) ²

In which X = Total amount of alcohol that can be consumed without causing lack of desire to go out.
A = Amount of alcoholic beverages found within the place of residence.
T = Tiredness of the person and/or creature in question.
G = Goodness of things within the place of residence (ie. TV schedule, Playstation games, really nice crisps etc.).
I = Time since last night out.
P = Proximity of suitable bars to the place of residence.

Here's an example of the simple "PIGTAX" formula at work:

Let us assume that the person in question has had a long day at work and has run somewhere for some reason. On the tiredness scale of 1-14 they are at around 9. They do not own a Playstation, and this evening there is an American Idol marathon on TV. However they do have some very nice crisps. This puts their goodness of things level at around a 4 out of 20 (and that's with some really nice crisps). They were out the day before, giving them an I of 1. There is a bar a mere 5 minutes down the road. The average person can cover around 600 paces in 5 minutes (according to data researched from the university of bullshit statistics) so this is our P.

X = A - ((9 + 4 + 1) / 6)²

X = A - 5.44 (2d.p.)

This demonstrates that the person is capable of drinking 5.44 "nicks" of alcohol. To calculate "nicks" you must know that 1 beer = half a nick, 1 whisky = 0.68 nicks, and 1 Stroh = 1 nick. All other drinks fall somewhere in the middle of this - it's really very simple to calculate.

However, our calculation is not finished. This person only has 6 beers and 3 shots worth of whisky in their home. This gives them an A of 5.04 nicks.

X = 5.04 - 5.44 = -0.4 nicks

From this calculation we can clearly see that the person in question can drink every drop of alcohol within their home without fear of reaching the point in which they no longer want more. If that person wishes to maximise their savings however, they're going to need that extra 2 fifths of a Stroh shot.

Here's a second example. This person has slept in until 3 in the afternoon and spent their time since then lying around eating pop tarts - they have a T of 1. Again, there is nothing on TV that evening, but they do have a Playstation and many games, as well as crisps and more pop tarts - their G is at 11. They live around 9 minutes from the nearest pub - their P is 1080. Their last night out was 4 days ago, giving them an I of 4. In their house they have 2 beers and the equivalent of 2 shots of whisky - an A of 2.36 nicks.

X = A - ((T + G + I) / (P/100)) ²

X = 2.36 - ((1 + 11 + 4) / (1080 / 100))²

X = 2.36 - (16 / 10.8)²

X = 2.36 - 1.48148148148...²

X = 2.36 - 2.19

X = 0.17 nicks (2d.p)

This person must be careful not to finish one of those drinks, otherwise they may find themselves stranded in their home with no alcohol and no desire to go and get some.

I hope this formula will prove useful to all those who find themselves in this sort of situation. And remember: drink responsibly - or you'll never make it to the pub for more.

*This is obviously always a preferable scenario, but rarely guaranteed without a severe lowering of your standards. Again - it's the logistics of getting to this point that will progressively get less appealing.

Excuses

2009-04-02T09:56:00.001+01:00

I was going to start writing the third chapter of the (still untitled) story today, but was sidetracked by this:

http://ifyoulikeitsomuchwhydontyougolivethere.com/

I've spent far too long on that today, laughing at the overwhelming stupidity of the internet and feeling smug.

When I eventually tire of this (possibly never) I will commence work on the next chapter. Probably.

Nick.

Old Blog - Play the Game

2009-03-27T08:25:00.000Z

Due to lack of anything new to write, and still filtering through ideas for the next chapter of the as-yet-untitled story, here is something I wrote a few months ago that used to reside only on myspace.

After recently purchasing a Playstation 3, I have begun looking through several sites to find the best games for this device. Since these games all seem to be rather expensive, it makes sense to only get the good ones. Unfortunately it seems that no-one can agree on what the best game is.
However, due to some extraordinary reaches of boredom, I have come to a conclusion of what I believe should officially hold the title of "Greatest Game Ever™."* It is challenging, infuriating, replayable and involves numbers.
"What is this exciting, spectacular, magnificent game?" I hear you type in to your comment boxes. Well delete that sentence, because I'll tell you. And when you hear the answer you'll realise how obvious and simple it is.
The game is Minesweeper®.
Normally in something like this I would now have to explain exactly what Minesweeper® is and how you play. But since this game has been readily available on every pc since Windows 95 (and possibly before - this was where I came in to the computing scene) I'm going to assume that everyone knows all this anyway. Instead I shall launch straight in to why Minesweeper® deserves this title.
Minesweeper® depends on strategy. Only novices, idiots and children wildly click on blank spaces hoping to see how long they can last before the yellow face dies. Cunning, clever, practised sweepers will take their time, analyse the possible outcomes of every click and expertly clear a pathway through the hidden bombs. It challenges the mind, and the eyes. Keep playing for more than a few games and you will find your attention begin to dwindle, you will not register some obvious signs and you will make mistakes. And in Minesweeper® mistakes are fatal.
Minesweeper® does not offer you extra lives. Minesweeper® does not give you a second chance. Minesweeper® is brutal. Minesweeper® is ruthless. And Minesweeper® will have no remorse about blowing you up when you only have one goddamn mine left to sweep.

Sometimes custom levels are just cheating...

It's not just about the numbers.

Let's just review what we can deduce as the background information of Minesweeper®. We know that we are given a map, set out as a grid, that can be a range of sizes (based on if you play at "beginner", "intermediate", "expert" or "custom" levels). Within this area are a certain number of mines (again, determined by what level you are playing) which are shown in the counter at the top left corner of the screen. We do not know where the action is taking place, whether it is based on a real scenario or a fictional one, but we do know that we have to find these mines so we can ensure a safe passage through them. We are not even told who it is we are trying to get through. We may assume that we are in charge of an army, finding their way through the minefield to the enemy's camp, and we must guide them their safely without killing them or compromising their position. Or we may be trying to mark out the mines so that innocent civilians from nearby towns may make their way through the minefield to collect water or vegetables or opium. Whatever the case, we have been entrusted with this mission and we must uphold our duty in finding these mines.
Unfortunately, though we are given some helpful technology to ease our job, getting started can be the riskiest part. To begin with we are offered no clues as to where these mines could be, other than the initial number of mines on the map. We are also not given a particularly safe method of clearing these mines, it seems to involve actually jumping on the spaces (or – I suppose – literally sweeping them and hoping a mine isn't under the dust). Now, obviously, we are not doing the jumping (or sweeping) ourselves as we are safely at home/work/Starbucks® controlling all this through our computer. The best assumption is that we are in control of a minesweeping robot that can leap in to the air to land on any space you select within the grid. This robot has been personalised by the round, yellow face you can see at the top of your screen. As you pick the square and the robot jumps, you can actually see its face call out "ooohh" as it takes to the air, not sure if it's going to survive the landing. This robot is then programmed with the ability to scan the 8 squares of the grid around it and, though it is unable to pinpoint where they are, tell you how many mines are in that area. Unfortunately you are only given one of these robots to control and if it is blown up by landing on a mine (displaying a "dead" expression on the yellow face) then all mines will have been replaced and moved by the enemy before another one can be shipped out to you.† You have one chance to sweep these mines, otherwise you have failed your mission.
Success however will reward you by showing you the clearly happy robot who has been given new sunglasses for his hard work in the field. Much like in real army life, you are given a swift (metaphorical) pat on the back for a job well done and, if you have proved yourself worthy by completing your mission faster than any other soldier, your name on the honours bored (otherwise known as the best time list).

Don't think you can just go running off to Solitaire®.

We've established the meaning behind Minesweeper®, as well as explaining that it is a strategy game depending on numbers that offers you only one chance to complete. It is this then that brings in the challenge. You fear landing on a mine because you know that as soon as you do you will be forced to start the whole game again. You know that the game is essentially a simple task, with each square you uncover offering clues as to which of the connecting squares are safe, and so the feeling of ineptitude is overpowering when you lose, forcing you to play again to prove your worth to yourself and the Microsoft© corporation. With every loss you increase your concentration, stare harder at the screen, focus more on each number you are given on every square you have successfully claimed. But this of course is your downfall. After two or three losses you find yourself unable to concentrate as hard, unable to recognise the simplest of traps that you would have laughed at in earlier games. And you will continue to lose. Minesweeper® will play with your fear of failure and taunt you until you fall in to its infinite pit of despair.
And when you win? Your reward is meagre. You don't even get the complimentary pair of fairly unflattering sunglasses, they go to the small yellow face – your solitary companion throughout the challenge. All you have is the knowledge that you either were or were not faster than the previous person to play this game, and if you were you can be sure that it's only a matter of time before someone comes along and robs you of your only prize. With this knowledge, and faced with such an anticlimactic ending to the game, there is only ever one thing you want to do. Play again.
And this is the secret to why Minesweeper® is the best game. Once you start playing, you will keep playing. Whether you win or lose you will keep playing. You will hate the game when you lose, and you will be disappointed by the game when you win. But this is all just Minesweeper® laughing at you.
Minesweeper® understands what drives you. Minesweeper® knows that when you blow up the last mine after meticulously finding the other 98 it is only a matter of time before you return to the game to prove your competence, and it knows that it has given you such an unsatisfactory ending when you complete it that you will simply play again in the hope that a better score will satisfy you more.
Minesweeper® is cruel. Minesweeper® is aware. And Minesweeper is a taunting little bitch that won't let you out of her clutches.
If I could just get it on the PS3…

Minesweeper®'s a bitch.

*Disclaimer: I do not claim to have played every game in the world - far from it - and accept that somewhere they may be a game considered superior to this one that I simply have not yet come across. In this case I ask that you, rather than sending abusive comments, remain calm and buy me this game so I may test it. Any money spent getting this game to me will not be returned.

†There is an alternative explanation for fans of the "army scenario" theory, previously mentioned. If the enemy troops are alerted by the sound of the explosion from a mine, then they know where your soldiers are and you have lost your element of surprise. Since you are obviously nearer their base (as if the mines were yours you would undoubtedly have a map with their locations – unless you're in the American army in which case you've probably lost it) they are likely to have access to more troops and artillery, as well having the high ground, so you are extremely likely to lose this battle. This, again, means you only have one chance at clearing the way and makes your job even more important.

Am I the only one to notice this?

2009-03-23T06:19:00.000Z

Untitled Story - Chapter 2 - Chocolate Flakes

2009-03-19T06:39:00.000Z

Note: Chapter 1 can be found a couple of posts down the page because I didn't think the layout of this blog through.

"Eww, you kissed an old woman!" Matt said in a high pitched, children's mocking voice.

It was later that afternoon and I was sitting in Starbucks, my hair still wet from the three showers it took me to feel clean again, getting abuse for my earlier act of heroism. Was I not allowed one celebratory coffee before the kissing jokes started?

"I didn't kiss her! I performed a first aid technique to prevent her from dying, just as you would have had to do if you'd bothered to work for once."

Matt was another lifeguard at the baths. We'd both joined up on the same day after deciding that the job involved lying around staring at girls in bikinis all day, and being paid for it. What we hadn't realised, though it should have been obvious, was that pretty girls usually don't spend all their time lying around an indoor swimming pool in revealing-yet-tasteful swimming costumes - they usually go out shopping or something with their friends and boyfriends who don't spend all their free time shouting at children for jumping in the water. Those who did turn up usually just treated it as a workout, and didn't stay very long. In the pool, swim a few lengths, out of the pool, change, home. No stopping, no relaxing, no flirting with the pathetically desperate lifeguards. Instead I spent several hours a day, every weekend, staring at the water as a steady stream of bored parents with their sugar-doped children, overweight mammoths trying to justify their breakfast curries and wrinkled seniors trying to defy the closeness of death came and went throughout the day. I'd been working there for six months and the most interesting thing that had happened (until this morning, that is) was when they drained the pool after a child had had an "accident" in there and I'd got to go home early. It may have been the most boring job in the world, but it paid well and I needed the money. I also didn't trust myself to work up the effort to find another job, even if I'd left this one. Matt, on the other hand, didn't seem to care as much as me. Today was the 5th week in a row that I'd covered his shift as he'd spent the weekend doing whatever it is that people who don't spend their free time with a whistle around their necks do. Having fun, probably. Being normal. I still have no idea how he managed to always have enough money to do whatever he wanted without every working. Hell, I was struggling to get by every week and half the time I was collecting his paycheck as well! I had even less idea why he kept his name down as an employee if he was just going to have me do all his work every week. "Legal purposes," he once told me, which I'm fairly sure makes no sense.

"Yeah, there's no way I would ever get off with some random old woman, even if she is drowning."

"What? So you would have just left her there to die by the side of the pool as you watch?"

Matt considered this. "Well, the pool's usually pretty busy at that time. Lots of fitness freaks trying to keep, you know, fit. One of them probably knew first aid, leave it up to them."

I stared at him. "But...you're the lifeguard! You can't just 'leave it up to them', it's your job! They're sitting back leaving it up to you because you're the one who's supposed to deal with this sort of thing!"

"Aha, not necessarily. As a lifeguard am I not simply guarding their lives by ensuring they do not endanger them through running or jumping while near the pool? Surely it is the job of the paramedics to bring her back from the brink of death. Otherwise I would be a life-keeper. Or a life-resumer. Or a death stopper! Yeah, now that's much cooler. Matt and Jake. Swimming pool death stoppers. Then I'd start going to work." He grabbed his coffee and triumphantly drank half of it in one swig. I hoped it burned him.

"Yes but...I...You can't..." I had nothing. Dammit. Matt could be so worryingly logical when it came to excuses for not working. There was nothing I could do to argue with him. I'm useless in these situations. Give me a drowning pensioner over a dicussion with Matt any day. I looked around for inspiration and saw Ashleigh walking towards us holding a coffee with what appeared to be a forest growing out of it.

"Ashleigh, will you please agree with me that, as a lifeguard, it's my responsibility to save people from drowning. I can't believe I need to find clarification for this. Also, what the hell is in your coffee?" I asked as she sat down next to Matt.

Ashleigh was Matt's girlfriend. They'd met at some party shortly after Matt and I had become lifeguards. She did sometimes come down to the swimming pool to hang out with us in her bikini but, by Matt's rules, I was not allowed to look at her during these times. He even fashioned a pair of blinkers for me once, to help me abide by his strict law after he caught me breaking it a few times. It was difficult though. How are you supposed to talk to someone without ever looking at them? Especially when that someone looks like Ashleigh. She was tall and thin, with long brown hair that swept over one side of her face, a beautiful smile that showed off her perfect teeth. And fantastic boobs. In retrospect, Matt may have been completely justified with his rule - though I hated him for it at the time.

"Oh, I told the coffee guy that I liked the flakes they put in the coffee sometimes, so he gave me like twenty of them. I think he likes me," she smiled as she said this - I believe I mentioned her smile? It was perfect.

"What?" cried Matt, "He's trying get with my girl?" Seriously, who talks like that? I made a mental note to talk to Matt about watching so many old American TV shows. "Where is he? If he tries anything funny again, I'll kick his ass!" Matt was 5'2 (which only furthered my confusion as to how he got an amazonian goddess like Ashleigh in the first place).

"Of course it's your responsibility," she said, ignoring Matt and slapping my hand away as I tried to steal one of her flakes. "If you're not going to save someone from drowning, then what are you doing taking a job as a lifeguard? The two kind of come together..."

"Thank you," I replied thankful for whatever God allowed me to meet this creature that was so smart and beautiful and wonderful. If I told her Matt's theory, maybe I could convince her that he was cruel and stupid and she'd come to me instead and we'd elope together and live happily forever.

"But you did get off with an old woman," she giggled.

I hated her.

Matt seemed to have forgotten his outburst of thirty seconds ago and was laughing along with her. It would be nice to have some friends who would congratulate me and treat me nicely when I save someone's life, I thought, instead of these sadistic bastards.

"I wasn't getting off with her! I was performing..." I started saying, my voice seeming much higher and louder than it usually did, when the ringing of my phone cut me off.

"Hello?" I answered, standing up as Matt and Ashleigh continued to laugh at me.

"Ah, Mr Johnson, hello. This is Officer Jameson, calling on behalf of Mrs Prinkleton."

"Who?"

"The woman you saved this morning..."

"Oh yeah, her. Right. Yes. Carry on." Idiot. Who else could the police have been calling you about?

"Well she's doing fine Mr Johnson, since you seem so concerned," smart arse. "In fact she heard about how you were the one who saved her and she has decided she would like to offer you a reward. As I'm sure you're aware, she's a very wealthy woman."

"I..I was not aware of that. A reward would be lovely." Not the most gracious of acceptances - how are you supposed to react to this sort of thing? Why have I never learned how to accept what could possibly be a large sum of money from an elderly lady whose life I saved that morning?

"Really? You've never heard of her? Prinkleton? No? Wealthy husband? Famous explorer? Died under mysterious circumstances? Nothing?"

"Er...Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell."

"Oh...Right." Great, now he thinks I'm a moron. I must be the least heroic hero in the world. "Well anyway, she's asked me to let you know when she's out of hospital, and you can go and collect your reward then.

"Right. Good. Thank you...sir. Goodbye"

I returned back to the table where it appeared Matt had been explaining his 'lifeguarding isn't about saving people' theory to Ashleigh.

"You are right about one thing - death stopper is cooler. Would probably make a decent band name too."

I sat down with them after quickly grabbing a couple of Ashleigh's flakes.

"That old woman wants to offer me a reward for saving her."

"What, really?"

"Yeah, apparently she's really rich too" I confirmed as chocolate crumbs fell down my shirt and melted in to little, delicious stains. Who the hell came up with the idea of chocolate that falls apart when you eat it?

"Wow." Matt seemed suitably impressed. For about 3 seconds. "Hey, maybe she's just looking for a little more action, if you know what I mean. Maybe your reward's a little something for both of you" He winked and they both started laughing again.

"It wasn't a...I didn't...Oh shut up!"

***********

Despite his sordid predictions, Matt accompanied me to Mrs Prinkleton's manor house out of curiosity for just what my reward could be. It had been three days since I'd saved her life and, despite some decent mentions in the newspaper, all anyone really wanted to comment on was that I'd been "kissing" some old woman. Turning up at her house a couple of days later probably wouldn't help those rumours that I was secretly a debaucher of the elderly, but I was a hero dammit and I deserved my prize.

The huge wooden door opened up to reveal to us old Mrs Prinkleton herself, looking even smaller and frailer than I remembered with her white hair looking like mould on an orange and a better moustache than I could have grown in a year. I shuddered at the memories that I knew would haunt me forever.

"Hello Mrs Prinkleton, I'm:-"

"Who are you?" she interrupted, which I thought for a minute was rather a ridiculous question when I was in the middle of introducing myself before I noticed she was squinting at Matt.

"I'm...uh...I'm Matt" he replied, looking pretty taken aback. He must have been as shocked at her rudeness as I was. Old people today. "I'm a friend of Jakes..."

"What happened to your face?" she asked, rather bluntly, as she examined the large red circle on Matt's cheek.

"Er...Long story, I'd rather not go in to it really" he mumbled as I tried my hardest not to laugh. It wasn't a long story, it was just a ridiculous one. The previous day Matt had tried to attack Starbucks guy as he was now convinced, for some reason, that he was trying to steal Ashleigh's heart from him (and probably her boobs). I've no idea how he came to this conclusion, but the outcome of the situation had Matt collapsing over the counter after trying to leap over it to throttle his startled nemesis, who countered the failed attack by cracking Matt across the face with a pot of hot milk. Needless to say, with his burnt and bruised cheek and my still very swollen nose we probably didn't look like the kind of people who would be turning up at a rich old lady's house with honourable intentions.

She squinted a little more at him, then finally seemed to decide he didn't look like much of a threat to her belongings and ushered us both inside. Her house was huge and full of all sorts of odd decorations and souvenirs from all over the world.

"They were my husbands" she explained as she saw me staring at a case full of arrows and spears. "I'm sure you've heard of him, he was a very famous explorer. He came across all these items on his travels across the world. Before he so mysteriously died of course."

I mentally kicked myself for forgetting to google his name earlier. Why did everyone assume I'd heard of this man? And why did they all refer to his death as 'mysterious'? Did many deaths come with this description? If I hadn't saved his wife, would her death be reported as mysterious? Would she be remembered for 'mysteriously struggling to breathe once her head was under the water'? I'd never witnessed any other nearly fatal experiences while I'd been working there, so I knew drowning in a public pool was not particularly common. Was this enough for it to be mysterious though? I realised I was thinking about this all too much and turned my attention back to the real world, where Matt was concentrating more on her husband's life than his death.

"An explorer? I didn't realise there were explorers any more. Haven't we found everything yet?" he asked.

She looked at him darkly. "Oh there are many more unusual things still to be discovered in this world," she replied. Now that was mysterious.

"Um, yes well...we really were just coming for the er...the reward you see, so..." I said, rather uncomfortably.

She looked at me once more before turning around and walking towards the back room without saying a word.

"Smooth." Matt said to me, walking after her.

We followed her in to the kitchen where a small object was lying on the counter, wrapped in brown paper.

"Here you are then. Accept this gift with my gratitude."

She didn't sound very appreciative, considering I'd kept her from her watery doom, or even happy about giving the object away. I however was getting steadily more curious as to what this package was. I'd assumed it was simply going to be a (hopefully large) cash gift and had been praying it wasn't whatever Matt had been thinking up in his disgusting little mind a few days before. But this object looked the wrong shape to be filled with money. What could it be? My mind was racing through the possibilities of the possible wonders I could be about to recieve from this collector of exotic objects. I picked it up off the counter top and ripped off the paper to reveal inside...

...a tiara.

St. Patrick's Day

2009-03-18T03:10:00.000Z

Please note clever use of font colour to make up for limited knowledge of what St. Patrick's day is about (was he an alcoholic Martian/Namek?*).

So as those of you who are from Ireland/aware of the Irish/alcoholics/own a calender will know, yesterday was St. Patrick's day - the number one holiday centred around drinking (closely followed by New Years Eve, Christmas and lonely Valentine's days). True to British form I took this as the perfect excuse to go out drinking on a Tuesday without thinking of the consequences I would be feeling the following morning. Unsurprisingly I am now experiencing those consequences and regretting that decision. Nevertheless, this is the story of an English man celebrating the patron saint of Ireland in Hong Kong.

To tell the truth, I almost didn't go out at all. I got back from work and spent the usual couple of hours lying on the sofa watching TV and eating sandwiches and crisps. Sometimes it's hard to get out of that mood, you really don't want to be bothered doing anything. But, such is my dedication to supporting the economically failing(probably) bar scene, I got up off that sofa, brushed the dorito crumbs off my St. Patrick's day green shirt (or the non-themed green shirt I was actually wearing and had happened to put on through sheer coincidence before learning what day it was) and set off on the lookout for adventure (read: booze). Also American Idol was on. By 11 o'clock I was in Wanchai - one of the major bar areas in Hong Kong.

I knew where I wanted to go first. Delaney's is an Irish pub that's known to just about every westerner who steps foot in Hong Kong. On the top (and for all I know, only) Irish holiday of the year it was sure to be full of many people who spoke my language. The only problem was that I couldn't find the damn place. I walked in 3 huge circles around the entirety of Wanchai before eventually giving up and simply going in to one of the other hundreds of bars there (this may be a little exaggerated). And there was Chinese Elvis. Chinese Elvis was a Chinese man dressed as Elvis (shocking, I know). He seemed to just be sitting in the bar playing his guitar and singing Elvis songs for no reason at all, ignoring the fact that there was already a jukebox playing in there and only the people sitting closest to him could hear him. Fortunately I was one of those people. Unfortunately he couldn't sing. The guy didn't seem to know half the words to any of the songs he was singing, and couldn't pronounce the other half. He had such a thick accent, and the songs were too fast for him to be able to work out how to say - imagine a Chinese man with a heavy accent trying to sing "Jailhouse Rock". Now imagine him trying to sing it while sounding exactly like Elvis Presley. It didn't work. "Jayrehow Wah" just does not sound as good. Still, it was a novelty and fairly amusing for a while. And his dedication to the character was pretty impressive, even if his singing wasn't.

I left that bar after a while to go wandering again, and FINALLY found Delaneys. It was crazy. There were more people spilling out on to the street than there were inside, and there were so many people inside you could barely move. I didn't spend very long in there actually - I don't like places where I have to fight through a crowd so I can wait half an hour to get a beer. Also I had the same conversation with three different groups of people about how great it is to be Irish, why Guiness is "men's beer" and why England suck at Rugby. It surprised me to find out just how many Irish people there actually are in Hong Kong.

After a couple of drinks it was time to move on to the next bar. This one was definitely quieter (I think there were about 4 other groups of people in there) but had a pretty decent jazz band playing. I stayed until the end of the set, but then got bored. Crowds can get annoying, but quiet bars are just dull when you're on your own. The next bar beckoned.

This was one of those bars you always seem to end up going to, even if you're determined to find somewhere new. I've been there a few times, but they have decent bands and just enough people so you don't feel awkward, but not so many that you go thirsty. I stayed in there for the rest of the night out, before feeling the need to leave and collapse on a doorstep somewhere nearby.

That's where the unwritten rule of Tuesday night bar crawls came in to play. Once you've emptied your insides on to some person's doorstep (actually some people's doorstep since everywhere is an apartment block here) it's usually time to go home. One quick cab ride home and I was sound asleep in bed, just a few short hours away from the wonderful feeling that accompanies morning.

And that is my surprisingly long story of a St. Patrick's day night out with myself. 4 bars, 4 and a half hours(ish), several drunken Irishmen, 3 bands, 1 Asian Elvis, many many drinks and 1 disgusting mess that someone else will have had to clean up this morning. All in all, a complete success I feel.

On an unrelated topic, I have just noticed that this blog thing works on American time. Why put the time I'm posting these if it's not going to put the right time? What a ridiculous thing.

*That's a Dragonball Z reference for all those who are just that cool.

Chapter 1 - Jake

2009-03-17T07:13:00.000Z

I stared at the water. For hours I'd just been sitting, watching it. It was almost hypnotic - at least to me. Twice a week I'd come down here and just watch it flow across the fringe of the land before retreating back to its depths. Back and forth, back and forth. The deep blue of the water contrasting with the pale brown of the shore, the soft invitation its gentle waving was offering to come and walk through it, letting it envelope me with its cooling embrace. Looking further across it I see children playing in its depths, hear their laughter and their playful screams as they race each other and duck each others heads below the surface. I see the serious swimmers determined to push themselves as hard as they can so they can feel that sense of accomplishment that comes with the burning muscles and tired lungs. Everyone is so full of energy here. Everyone is so alive. Everyone :-

"HELP!"

Shit.

A figure below the surface of the water. Arms reaching up, trying to bring the weight of the body with them, but they are too frail, too slow. There's nothing for them to grab on to and they just stroke the top of the pool without moving anything. People have stopped swimming, are looking over to the drowning woman. A few are screaming. Some are gathering up their children and trying to force them to look away even though they themselves can not stop staring. Two men are now lifting the woman out of the water, dragging her over the side of the pool. I race across towards them, ignoring all the signs that warn me against the dangers of running. I've read each of those signs a million times over the last 6 months and now I pray that their warnings are exaggerated. I slide the last few feet and drop down to lie next to her. Everyone moves away, gives me space to assess the situation. She's old. She's very old. Bollocks. I put her in the recovery position faster than I could have put myself in any position and begin shouting to her, trying to wake her up. Nothing. She's not breathing. I groan. She is very, very old. More Bollocks. There's no other choice. I begin CPR.

It's thirty seconds before she starts to breathe again. Thirty seconds of terrifying, panicky, heart-stopping, wrinkly, disturbingly hairy-lipped hell. Thirty seconds longer than I usually like to dedicate to having my face attached to that of a very old stranger's. But she coughs, and begins to breathe again. Yes! I've done it, I've brought a person back to life! She's coughing up more water than I had previously thought was in that pool, but she's alive!

Then she suddenly and unexpectedly sits up and headbutts me so hard in the face that I fall in to the pool myself and have to be helped out by the same two guys who had helped me save my octogenarian assailant's life less than a minute before.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," I assure them as I watch blood fall in to what had been a beautifully clear pool from what had been my beautifully shaped nose.

I look back at my elderly damsel of distress. She's collapsed again, but still breathing. I decide she's probably going to be alright until the paramedics arrive; at around the same time that I decide that there are too many people around to see me push her back in the water. I instead opt to go in to the changing rooms and vomit in to a toilet for several minutes.

*****

When I returned to the poolside the woman had already been taken away in an ambulance and there were a group of policemen taking statements from those witnesses who hadn't felt the need to run away at the sound of sirens. One of them approached me as I entered the room.

"Ah, you must be the young man who saved her then. What's your name son?"

It took me a second to think of the answer, I must have still been in shock - all I could think about were whiskers. "Um...Jake, sir" I finally said.

"Well Congratulations Jake. You're a real hero".

He seemed to falter as he said the last part and looked me up and down. It was understandable. I've seen a lot of films and usually the hero isn't soaking wet and covered in his own blood, vomit and tears. But it was nice to hear all the same.

"Oh thank you sir, but I'm really not a hero." I tried to stand up tall and stick out my chest as I said this, to show I knew I really was a hero, but this action merely flung some of the wet cake mixture of bloody vomit over him. "I'm just another lifeguard."

Frist Psot

2009-03-17T06:08:00.001Z

So this is where I shall now be attempting to write more stuff than I've ever been bothered to before. In time I shall eventually get round to referring everyone I know to this so they can waste all of their time too. This may or may not end up with more people reading my stuff than if it was written on myspace.

I suppose I now have to start thinking of things to write about then. Maybe later...

Coming soon: Short stories. Nonsense poems. Episodes of my life in literary form. The usual.

Enjoy.