A Moment of Pure Self-Indulgence

In a moment of pure self-indulgence this week I sat down and wrote a little something fictional, something i've threatened to do for a long time now. What follows is just about a page of what I wrote, and it's barely even a first draft, so be nice. (Oh, and I apologise for the page formatting, I can't seem to work blogspot properly).

I

7.00 AM. The alarm rang and tore him from his dream. He had got his eight hours. He stretched out his left arm and deftly turned off the alarm. The sun streamed through his Egyptian cotton curtains and the crack in the open window allowed in the sound of a Chaffinch calling out into the crisp, spring air. It was the same call he heard every morning. He liked the sound of the Chaffinch, his garrulous little friend. He wondered what it was calling for; the celebration of a new day, the seducing of a possible mate, or just something to pass the time as it flew through its morning chores? Whatever its purpose, it suddenly dawned on him that the bird was at least wide awake, something which he had to be, and fast.

          He lay on his back, face up in bed and summoned the will to get up. He took a deep breath and in a sweeping motion, threw his duvet off and swung his legs round leaving him sat on the edge of his mattress. He leant over and, trying to get his bearings in the dimly sun-lit room, reached for his glasses. His thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses. As he put them on he stood up and walked over to the little oak cabinet on the other side of the room. He pressed play on the Hi-fi system, the sole object that sat on top of the cabinet, and watched through the clear gap in the disc cover as the CD span round and whirled into action. As the disc clicked and whirred he stood and counted quietly to three:

          “One... two... three.”

         On cue as always, the speakers threw music towards all four corners of the room, enveloping him in sound. The walls dripped with the sound of James Brown. It was I Feel Good. It was always I Feel Good. Every morning, without fail.

         He took off his pyjamas; a plain white t-shirt and red tartan lounge trousers, folded them and placed them under his single pillow. Ruffling his thick, black hair with his right hand he walked over to the en-suite bathroom. Stepping in, the cold ceramic kiss the tiled floor gave the soles of his feet made him wince as he turned the shower handle two and a half turns clockwise and counted to five as the water warmed up:

          “One... two... three... four... five.”

         He removed his glasses, folded them and lay them down on the shelf above the toilet. He stepped under the shower head and pulled the shower curtain around on its rollers. It resisted in the same places it always did, glided without concern in the same places it always did, and would inevitably not stop the shower water from going all over the bathroom floor, just like it always did. He reminded himself again that he needed to look into that.

        He finished in the shower, turned the handle two and a half turns anti-clockwise, pulled the shower curtain to its original position, stepped out of the shower and, shivering from the sudden blast of cold air that hit his body like a freight train, reached for his thick, warm towel that was hung on the radiator beside the toilet. He wrapped the towel around his waist and looked himself in the mirror. The bathroom door he had left open so most of the shower heat had escaped throughout his wash, however a small amount of condensation was left on the mirror, slightly obscuring the image of his eyes. With one fell swoop of his right hand he removed the condensation and wiped the moisture on his towel. Again he returned to looking at the reflection of his face. No noticeable change. He picked up his tooth-brush, an electric toothbrush with a built in timer, started the timing function and began to brush. He remembered his Dentist’s advice as he went and gave full attention to every section of his mouth, even his tongue. Two minutes past and his tooth-brush beeped at him. He rinsed it in the cold tap water and put it back down in its charging bay, gargled a cap-full of mouthwash for good measure and took one final look at himself in the mirror before walking out of the en-suite and closing the door behind him.

          The music had long since finished and he was never in the mood for any more than that one song in the morning; the reason why he created a CD with just the one song on it. He dried himself thoroughly with his towel then folded it in half and threw it on top of his un-made bed. He walked over to his huge oak wardrobe which stood in the corner of the room next to the oak cabinet, dwarfing its comparatively tiny counterpart. The door creaked as it opened to a reveal a mass of neatly ironed and arranged clothes of varying shades of brown and beige. He stared into the muddy void and deliberated as to what to wear. Thought however was futile, and he dismissed all other possible options out of hand and grabbed his navy chino trousers, a slightly lighter-navy tie, a regular white shirt and his favourite brown corduroy blazer. He found a clean pair of socks lurking in the corner of the wardrobe bottom and took out the shoe box containing his favourite brown brogues. He sat down on his bed to tie them and, once secured, he sat and he stared at them. They were a present. Suddenly realising that he was becoming lost in his thoughts, he stood up again, headed out of his room and went downstairs.

Bird? Plane? Geek!

The terms ‘Geek’ and ‘Nerd’ in today’s society are often contrived. Many people make the assumption that they are same thing. However, apart from a few subtle cross-overs there are several fibres in the make-up of these terms that allow them to be differentiated. A ‘Nerd,’ if I may steal a definition from Urban Dictionary (and yes steal, not borrow; borrow gives the impression I intend to return it once I’ve used it) is someone “whose IQ exceeds his weight.” They are the clever ones. The ones generally bullied in school but who eventually create power-house businesses and generate six-figure salaries. Think Bill Gates and you wouldn’t be far wrong.

A ‘Geek’ however should never be confused with a ‘Nerd.’ Geeks do not have to be smart. They do not lack the social skills that Nerds do but they are most likely not in any way athletic (but still enjoy sport on a non-physical level), they read, watch copious amounts of TV and films, play video games and surf the internet furiously. This is where I come in. I am a ‘Geek.’ I’d like to say it that it took me a while to come to terms with it but I’ve always been one and potentially always will be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a hermit who stays indoors or essentially a young child stuck in a teenage body but there are some obsessions that I have carried forward since the day I was born. Without playing it I still have a soft spot for Pokemon, love Star Wars and am as obsessed as when I was five at the prospect of Batman. I turn nineteen in August this year and only last week I ordered a Batman poster online and bought a full-length Justice League of America door poster for my bathroom door.

When I was much younger, I would come in from school and immediately get changed from my school uniform into either a Batman, Superman, Spiderman or any kind of –man costume that I could create using the things I would find lying around. I even once commissioned my Mum to make me a Superman cape out of red curtain material to the exact specifications of the one that was worn on the American TV-series that was broadcast over here up until a few years ago, and watched over her as she did it. Looking back, I’d have kicked me if I was my kid. That’s Mums though, the patience of a Saint built into every one.

I appreciate that now I could be much worse and I don’t go round exclaiming to everyone I meet how Geeky I am, I’ll leave that for the upturned jean legged, Dr. Marten wearing Indie kids to do that. Compared to them, I’m not that bad. Besides, it’s not as if when I went home during Christmas I found the aforementioned Superman cape, discovered that it still kind of fit and ended up watching TV “accidently” wearing it for a bit. Oh, leave me alone.

Titles Are Too Mainstream

If you are a frequent reader of my blog you will no doubt be aware that this Semester in my University course I turn my head to poetry. Now, I don’t like poetry. I never have done and although I like to think of myself as open-minded, I fear I never will. The reason why poetry as a whole has never appealed to me is its creation of an undeniable air of pretentiousness amongst its avid readers. If I may elaborate: a student walked, no, swaggered into my Music elective last week wearing a cravat, horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses, holding an old, leather-bound copy of a book containing selected poems by Percy Shelley. They say you form an impression of a person within a few seconds of seeing them and within about a half of one of these precious seconds I instantly decided that I would very much like to test the sturdiness of his face against the business end of a spade.

It is this creature whom I most despise. Don’t get me wrong, wearing a cravat is perfectly reasonable – post turning 90 – and I would be the first to support anyone in wearing whatever style of glasses they liked – as long as they, oh I don’t know, were used for their primary function, not so someone can saunter down the street exclaiming to passers by how ‘indie’ they are. It was no surprise to me that this person was holding the book that he was. He is the kind of person you see on a train very evidently reading Dickens or Shakespeare in an attempt to somehow elevate his social status amongst a group of people who he has never spoken to and who would potentially, depending on the journey, beat him to death for wearing ridiculously over-polished black and white brogue shoes.

As far as I could see, a few years ago these snooty, cravat-wearing tosspots only read poetry. Now it seems that they’re branching out into other areas of popular culture I previously thought they never knew existed, most notably films and music. The favourite band of this kind of human is The Smiths. They will exclaim that Morrissey has written some of the most “beautiful and spontaneously moving” lyrics of their generation, even though he wrote most of his lyrics before the night their Dad’s got lucky 18 or so years ago, and point out that “they have a song for every mood possible.” Which, to be fair, is true; if you constantly feel like committing suicide.

The same goes for films. This kind of creature spends their time at a Cornerhouse cinema or local picture house, not a large cinema chain. They don’t watch films though mind you; they explore their soul through the medium of the ‘contemporary visual arts.’ They are the kind of person who can watch a silent movie and proclaim that it ‘spoke’ to them on “moving, spiritual plain,” because just “liking” a film will surely never do.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have come across this person at a time in which I was tired, it was early and I was reluctant to even be in Uni at the time it was. Or perhaps coming across him was just the thing I needed to start the much sought after revolution we so badly need against these horrific malfunctions of the human race. I’d probably opt for the latter... if it wasn’t so mainstream.

Vive La Resolution!

Now before I begin let me apologise profusely for my veritable ‘radio-silence’ over the last month or so. Let me assure you, there are a number of perfectly reasonable excuses as to why I’ve been forced to move this little blog of mine somewhere deep in the ether; granted the primary reason of such was my general laziness over the festive period and therefore my reluctance to sit down for any length of time and write, which incidentally mirrors the feelings I had towards the essay I had to write before I arrived back in Leeds this January. Nonetheless, as with the essay, the little voice in my head that kept reminding me that it had to be done eventually finally won over the other little voice that reminded me that the beer in Wetherspoon’s wasn’t going to drink itself. Don’t get me wrong for one second, writing this little bit of technologically-presented insignificance is by no means a chore, but as I write it off the top of my head it always takes longer than I imagine so naturally, it gets put off. Well, it’s what I do with everything that I know requires even a modicum of thought.

Anyway, the Christmas break was better than I could have imagined. Several nights out were had, many a pint was drunk and it was great to be back at home, reunited with friends and family whom I’d left behind. Suffice to say, I had never really liked ‘town’ back home, it was never really my scene; but having spent what felt like every other night there, with the right people of course (undoubtedly some of the world’s best), I have to say I’ve developed quite a likeness to certain places. If you will, and excuse the crude, tosser-ish tone of what I’m about to say; everyone well and truly regained their seat on the ‘banter bus.’ Yeah, I know. Sorry.

Also in the last month, in one of the finest examples of terrible time management, I took and passed my driving test. This was conclusion of over a year of lessons and more money than I frankly care to comprehend all because admittedly I put off my test on several occasions for reasons that actually I don’t understand myself. I guess it just got put to the bottom of the pile through an insane and completely illogical version of natural selection. As it happens, in some respects it paid off because I passed first time, even after stalling literally ten seconds after leaving the test centre; something that, incidentally, I haven’t done since about my tenth lesson.

That said, I’m nothing if not adaptable and so I start 2012 with the same resolution I set myself every year, but to no avail. For those of you who know me or have at least seen me, you would perhaps presume that my yearly resolution would be to drop a few. Alas this is never the case and my latest achievement of creating a belly that can now comfortably act as beer shelf for when I sit down has done nothing but enhance my desperate love of anything edible and in large quantity. No, my yearly resolution to manage my time better - mostly in terms of work. I generally start off fairly well but by the end of the year, as highlighted by the aforementioned driving test, the resolution just disintegrates into dust. Not this year through. Oh no, this year will be the most organised and managed year of my entire life. No more leaving essays until the last minute or desperately reading final chapters of books on the bus into Uni for me. All year. Well, for a bit. Possibly. Maybe. We’ll see.

Point Break

A sudden onslaught of insomnia has led me to sit aimlessly at my laptop, bleary eyed and knackered in an attempt, I suppose, to induce a state of doze on my brain currently being fuelled by tea and custard creams. Normally I would have some sort of mental plan as to the direction of what I’m writing before I begin to write about it. To those who have read any of my previous articles prior to this, this may come as some sort of surprise but I promise I do. Trust me. In this instance however, no such luck. I’d like to say that I have a myriad of topics to discuss stored away for me to pluck at at random whenever the mood may take me, but alas, t’is not so. I suppose the natural thing to talk about, also being the only thing my brain is offering me at the moment apart from different items of food I have in the fridge that I could potentially go and eat, would be the impending Christmas break that is to befall on all University students in the next few weeks, so I’ll settle for that.

In comparison to a number of people in my own flat and of the flat next door, my work load this semester has been relatively manageable and somewhat free of the stereotypical stress that University work stigmatically possesses. That said, having done essentially nothing in the summer, pre-enrolment, I feel currently like I have indeed completed the whole three years. I don’t think that I’ve read so many books, journals, articles and plays in such succession in such a short amount of time in my entire life. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t and every tutor’s favourite, if not a little patronising, phrase “don’t complain, at least you’re getting your money’s worth” may not be able to encourage quite so many for quite so long when everybody returns in January fresh from a month of procrastinating around exam revision and unwritten essays.

Without sounding preachy or pathetic, I haven’t yearned for a Christmas break quite as much in my entire life as I do this one. Don’t get me wrong, I love everyone I’ve met since arriving in Leeds, but it’s difficult to move to a new city having left everyone you’ve lived with and known for years; friends and family, just like that and not really see them or have contact with them other than through texts and calls for a good block of time. Especially for someone who is as averse to change as I am. To go back to Warrington and see everyone, have some nights out and have things as they were even for just a relatively small amount of time is just what I need I think at this point in time. I have spoken to some of these aforementioned people quite recently who, without question, echo these thoughts.

I apologise if I've started to sound relatively soppy; I fear it’s the tiredness taking hold. Either that or the custard creams. I assure whoever you are reading this though that it isn’t a cry for help or anything, more likely a cry for a Morrison’s chicken bites meal (only some will get that reference, you know who you are) and a bit of time back in the motherland with the friends and family I’ve missed. Plus the fact, when I return to Leeds in January, the English module turns its head to poetry. I hate poetry.

An INKredibly Measured Decision

Over the past few weeks of writing these few ramblings I have received a number of delightful comments from people who have seemingly enjoyed reading them. One question I was asked this week was “why did you start to do it?” This got me thinking. For me, there was no concrete reason as to why began to write publicly, for as long as can remember I have hated my work being read out; In fact, even the thought of my own mother proof-reading bits and pieces that I wrote for school and college still brings me out in a cold sweat. I suppose the reason was twofold. Firstly, I can only imagine that I wanted to write publicly as a means of practice. Studying for a degree in English, the way you write and how you present yourself in an essay or other piece of work is the University’s only means of assessing your academic capabilities (except when you’re doing African dancing in a theatre workshop and wondering how your life went so wrong). Secondly, and I think the aspect of doing this that seems most apparent, is that I actually really enjoy it. I’ve never had any quarms about writing (heaven help me if I did being on this course) and I like the fact that I am providing a medium for people to read, hopefully enjoy and sometimes empathise with me on some of the subjects on which I write.

Now forgive me for being so blunt but I’m going to go right ahead. Many of you may be aware that my favourite band of all time is the LA funk-rockers, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Many I spoke to were annoyed (and many repulsed) at the amount of times I went to see them on their current UK leg of the tour they are currently working their way through – the opening UK date at London’s O2 Arena and both dates at Manchester’s M.E.N. Arena for those who didn’t know but are interested (presumptuous I know but I always presume that some are as nerdy as me). Now with love for the band very much out in the open so to speak, you would be forgiven for presuming that the subject of the rant this time would be focused on the train wreck of a television show, The X Factor. Alas, I haven’t the energy to write as much poisonous spite as I want and could do about that farcical rendition of Under the Bridge. I’d just end up giving myself a heart attack so I’m straying very much away from that.

No, the subject of my thoughts this week – and indeed for many a previous week – is tattoos. Again, bear with my seemingly random change of direction. Now every member of RHCP is no stranger to a tattoo or five (with the exception of new blood Josh Klinghoffer), many of which are personal images and all of which have a story attached to them. For a long time, I myself have wanted a tattoo of the bands logo somewhere upon my person (for those who are unaware of said logo it is a thick asterisk shape; you’ll recognise it when you see it), my preference being my inside wrist however I can comprehend the aesthetic reasons against such a decision and have been thinking about other positions. There is not one member of my family that agrees with me getting a tattoo and I can’t really see why. It’s not that I can’t comprehend their opinions, I just don’t necessarily agree with them. After all, perhaps I don’t want to work in an establishment in the future that doesn't allow an, all-told, fairly basic form of expressive creativity.

Now I know many people who have tattoos, and cannot understand, in most cases, the stigma placed by many people upon the tattoo adorned community. Granted, there are some people, and some designs that let their side of the argument down. We’ve all seen a complete horror story of a tattoo and to be honest, it’s often funnier when the people themselves cannot see how woefully awful it is. Pictures are always popping up on Facebook of Chav’s getting pretentious Latin phrases or Arabic scripture tattooed across their forehead or something even though the furthest from the UK they’ve been is on holiday to Mykonos and their gene-pool doesn’t expand further than Liverpool. It truly makes you despair of the human race.

Also, it’s not as though this is a whimsical decision I have made. I haven’t got drunk and stumbled into a tattoo parlour demanding an image of a frog dancing with a chicken on my arm or had a relative strangers name branded onto my knuckles, it’s a measured, reasoned and considered choice. I doubt this will make any kind of impression on those that don’t like them (and like myself there are plenty of people without tattoos who enjoy a tasteful design, with shows such as LA, NY and Miami Ink exploiting this), but it’s something I thought I ought to bring up. Good tattoos showcase a diverse art form and when done well they can be incredible. And plus, who’s going to want to argue the toss with Ami James or Corey Miller? Didn’t think so.

Stop! Grammar Time!

As was the reasoning behind the creation of the previous blob of rambling matter that I splattered all over your screens about a week ago, I find myself at my desk at a loose end. On Tuesday I have an English essay to submit. An English essay, I must confess, that does not yet exist. The ominous task of creating such a gargantuan and overwhelming collection of words that I use, but don’t really understand, combined with footnotes that aren’t really relevant but that somehow make me appear more intellectual is a prospect that I fear will never be conquered. In fact, instead of this, I have spent the last couple of hours watching missed episodes of Masterchef and clips of Qi on YouTube. But alas there is only so much time in which you can watch Gregg Wallace drool over syrup-drizzled panacottas before you start to feel physically ill.

However, in an attempt to further procrastinate around actually doing anything of worthwhile importance, I figured I would just write about something that has annoyed me more than usual this week. The dawn of Facebook, it seems, has brought with it the demise of any grammatical conventions that the languages of our society have been built upon since humans stopped grunting, and started to use real words (the people of Wigan can therefore now cease to read this article). I jest of course; everyone knows that ‘Wiganers’ can’t read; not if what they’re reading isn’t on the board of a chip shop. I am, what is affectionately known by most to be called, a ‘Grammar-Nazi.’ I would like to say that this has been brought upon me by my English degree for which I am currently whittling my life away on, however; it is something that I have always been.

Bad grammar irritates me. I think it is probably the laziness of the mistakes that people make that really gives me the hump. In general, we can slip up in a verbal conversation and get away with it. A colleague may be thinking, “Did he just say ‘irregardless’?”, but the words flow on, and our worst transgressions are carried away and with luck, forgotten. That’s not the case with written communications. When we commit a grammatical crime in emails, discussion posts, reports and other professional documents, there’s no going back. We’ve just officially gone on record as being careless or clueless. And here’s the worst thing; it’s not necessary to be an editor or a language ‘whiz’ or a spelling bee nerd to spot such mistakes. They have a sneaky method of evading detection by the writer and then reaching out to grab the reader by the throat.

Sadly, I have identified four main grammatical faux pas plaguing our society. In only the past hour I have spotted these four mistakes in just quick scans of my Facebook news feed; many, I must say, coming from people my age who are now mother’s, but I digress; plus, they know who they are. It’s just a pity they don’t know who the father’s are. Anyway, that’s another rant for another time. Here they are:

‘Your’ and ‘You’re’ are two completely different words with completely different meanings. Arguably the most common error, this plagues Facebook accounts and text messages the world over. All it takes to avoid this error is to take a second and think about what you’re trying to say. It is also a favourite generally amongst Chavs; as in, “you’re screwing up your writing by using your when you really mean you are.” The uses of both ‘It’s’ and ‘Its’ are also common mistakes generally overlooked. When writing something, repeat your sentence out loud using “it is.” If that sounds goofy, “its” is likely the correct choice. Thirdly, ‘There’ and ‘Their’. Come on! It’s either a place or something belonging to someone! Not exactly the most confusing definitions. Finally, but to be fair, ‘affect’ and ‘effect’ are harder ones to grasp than most. However, “Affect” is a verb, as in “Your ability to communicate clearly will affect your income immensely.” “Effect” is a noun, as in “The effect of a parent’s low income on a child’s future is well documented.” By thinking in terms of “the effect,” you can usually sort out which is which, because you can’t stick a “the” in front of a verb. While some people do use “effect” as a verb (“a strategy to effect a complication”), they are usually lawyers, and you should therefore ignore them if you want to write like a human.

Now trust me, I understand how anal this is but it’s something that really grinds my gears. No doubt however that at some point in this passage I will have fallen fowl to the very evil I am commenting on; if have or do however, trust me that’s purely accidental. Do I really sound like the sort of person to use grammatical errors in order to get a cheap laugh? Especially at the end! Oh, the cheek of it. To be honest though, I’m surprised you’ve made it this far! If you are reading this, congratulations, give yourself a pat on the back. Done that? Right, now go and jump out of the window. It’s official. Your sad.