The Year, the Whole Twelve Months

January

Was thrown into 2006 in Berlin, in some type of happy party, with fireworks, and Germans, but with more non-Germans audible. The mood was amicable and the group was large, although at times I slipped into my distant self. I wore tights underneath my trousers and the snow crunched under my boots. I moved away from silent, friendless student halls into a shared flat with proper people. Panicked at having to live with proper people, before realizing that actually, this is the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.

February

Watched my first Takashi Milke film. Went to Prague with my new housemates and friends, where I experienced what was back then the best party I’d ever seen: an underground, hardcore drum and bass rave. I got completely mashed, then enjoyed Prague city centre in those unofficial early hours, with a flicker of morning light filtering through the darkness, battling with the neon, where the only people up are those working and resenting it, or rowdy groups still playing out on the streets after a long night’s party. There’s nothing like confused carnage to mess you up whilst being sufficiently bacchanalian to give you the dose of freedom you need to keep going. Gave the worst presentation of my life: half way through I pretended to nearly faint to try and stop that excruciating ordeal. Vowed to never be so ill-prepared or downright stupid as to ever get into a similar situation, whilst admitting the unliklihood of me keeping that vow.

March

Visited a friend in Hanover, spend most of the time sleeping or drinking, but paid €15 for entrance into the world’s largest IT and telecommunications fair, CEBIT, an experience I would never have embraced were it not for new influences. Toured the North of Germany. Fell in love with Hamburg, wished I lived there. Saw a man carrying a suitcase full of cutlery and a gorgeous slim black girl smoking a joint whilst waiting for the subway. Accidentally ended up visiting a girl I didn’t know that well in Bremen and we ended up becoming friends: was just the shot of Britishness and understanding I (we both) needed. Told someone who didn’t mean anything to me that he didn’t mean anything to me and then started acting that way. Met my housemate’s girlfriend, and learned more about him just through meeting her than a whole bundle of conversations would’ve taught me. She told me the Greeks enter the Olympic stadium first, when the games are held, because of their historical status. Respected her a lot, though we clashed, occasionally, for what seemed like cultural reasons, or so my gut told me. Felt increasingly like the spoilt Westerner.

April

Went to the Filmfest Dresden: International Festival for Animation and Short Film. The ultimate night was the best, there were films worth waiting for: still, my housemates did it better, with their home-made, home-grown filmfest zu Hause. A pair of children destroyed their surroundings in a familiar childhood, abusing an idol from the stomach of a rabbit. Became Frau Fitton for the first time as I attempted to show a bunch of teenagers what a delightful language English is. Stood in front of a group of mocking kids who just didn’t give a damn, and were obnoxious as hell. Realized there is a distinct possibility of me falling into teaching were I not to find a better career path, and realized how God awful that would be. I started learning Chinese: something I mentioned more often at parties than did any work for. Went to a castle hidden away in folds of hills and steams for a long weekend of reflecting upon German Studies with the other Warwick students from my year. They fed us salmon. Spent one of my last hours there looking outwards towards the moon, the mist curling on the surrounding hills, and became intensely Romantic. Found out that next year there was going to be an absence of someone who inspired admiration, humanity, respect, fear in me, cried in front of her.

May

Started to spend time out-of-doors, particularly by the banks of the Elbe River, with Dresden’s skyline one side and the start of the Sächsische Schweiz on the other. Was visited by four Warwick friends, did not rise well to the challenge of being a hostess, or to the challenge of the incompatibility of my two groups of people. Was told that even in Berlin, the gay community faces much prejudice: a statement retracted five months later by the unsaid individual, alcohol and seesha had gone to his senses. Peed on the pavement next to a tram full of people at 2am; denied that this was unacceptable behaviour. Had a wonderful breakfast on a Sunday morning with my three girlfriends, the highlight of the visit: right on Alaunstraβe, at 10am, eyeing up a cute guy reading a paper opposite us, I proved beyond reasonable doubt that I cannot impersonate an American accent.

June

Persuaded the authorities to let me on a plane which allowed me back into the United Kingdom. Surprised my mother by drinking black coffee; this took on a metaphorical value for her as it represented my metamorphosis into a ‘European’. Returned to the Warwick bubble for a fleeting few days, whilst remaining separate from the bubble. Managed to almost completely severe a bond with someone: a bond that was already fragile, and teetering on strained. Took a step backwards into a relationship with another person, which either was or seemed like a good idea at the time. Not sure which. Made another girl cry and was happy about it, though the Schadenfreude really came after this month. Went to what is still now the best party of my life: open air psychedelic trance party in the middle of nowhere (well, Drebkau) with Goa Gil. By far the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen partying, and the best, wildest music. It won’t be beaten for a long, long time. Went for a bare-foot walk in the woods there. Was told: “Don’t be confused. BE CONFUSED”. Cried like a Mexican with my friend as we ate chilli. Danced until 2:30pm the following afternoon.

July

Started working for a summer school for people learning German. Got things wrong a lot of the time. Felt better about my German as it was superior to that spoken by people who’d been learning German for two weeks. Was flown to Scandinavia. ‘Es lebe der Feminismus’. Managed to do something slightly obscene without any drugs. Went to a psychedelic trance festival immediately afterwards, had a crazy week. Was told that I took too much, man. Was in agreement with this statement. Had an intense morning looking at giant grasshoppers in a deserted airbase, whilst thinking about Catch-22 and holding on to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Was told it’s not healthy to always be looking for Falk. Saw an internal fear expressed on someone’s face with a clarity one normally only sees in well-made horror films. Saw the beginning of something I wanted to go further with. Was told that all Americans are ignorant and all Brits are arrogant. Went to the Bundesrepublik Neustadt, the best festival in Dresden. Was told that if I liked it there I would like it in China.

August

…was a long month. Saw the skyscrapers of Krankfurt, the Rhine of Köln, the splendour of München. Things were coming to an end in Dresden, it was quite final. It rained a lot and the rain reminded me of Wales. Whether the rain was like Welsh rain or whether it was just all in my head, well, I know what Vojo would say. I tried to read a lot but the words stayed flat on the page and did nothing in my mind. A nice girl caught my attention: she was from Nottingham but looked like she was Czech. Was told by a Russian boy who was arrogant as hell and didn’t have a clue about anything that I always say shit about my country and I shouldn’t. Maybe he did have a clue about that, but he didn’t know a damn thing about anything else. Went to Berlin for four days with my mother: after one inevitable and giant row, we had a pleasant time. Ate out of ‘Mutter Hopper’, where a rat ran under all the guests’ tables. I visited the nearly-severed friend in Prague, who was there with her boyfriend. Had an awful time, so did they, but at least they had an awful time together. Went to Wroclav for a final fling with friends. There it was warm, full of light, and colourful. Got into a negative state of mind which I couldn’t shake, still don’t know why. Screwed that one up. Was given one of the nicest presents I’ve ever received: perfectly chosen for me as a person: “Ich hab’ das Fräulein Helen baden seh’n”. I realized I had done a million things wrong; I realized I had understood a thousand things wrong. I began to realize what was meant by: “They are good people”. I had a way to go. I got on a tram, a train, a bus, a plane, a bus, a train, and then walked around Stockholm. The flags were dangling from the streets, above which the sky was an unblemished blue, and everyone there was beautiful. Got on a ferry, where there was a casino, which was appropriate. Then we were in Tallinn, Estonia. Roll playing again: it was unsure who was Raoul and who was Gonzo. I had never realized how much I relied on BBC news, and how anti-communist Spiderman is. Tallinn looked like a clip from the Simpsons, then the animation from Monty Python, I could feel the lines of the buildings, I could feel them on the edge of my skin. The smells became sounds, the sounds became visions, and everything became a part of me. I became very distant at times, which was necessary, as much distance was going to follow this excursion. The Swedish archipelago is really very beautiful.

September

Came back to the British Isles. Spent two hours at Victoria station waiting for my coach: saw two drunken men being chucked out of a pub whilst I dared myself to eat absolutely nothing for as long as possible. Was pleasing for a short while to be able to do the British thing. Arrived in my home town at 4am, and walked over the bridge, looked down at the river where the moon was shinning: that self-same moon that shines just about everywhere. Saw a friend’s bitter disappointment, she is no longer emmigrating to New Zealand. Spent a quality week with my father, unexpectedly, and enjoyed it. Saw the Blackpool illuminations, and went up the tower, like you do. We had fish and chips. Plodded up to London to see my brother doing well. Afterwards there was only stagnancy, and confusion. Perhaps the worst month of the year, perhaps not. Felt as though everyone was happy and I wasn’t, how stupid. Counted down the days till I would be active again, at Warwick this time.

October

Moved into halls at Warwick. Shared three bottles of mock-champagne with my housemates. Stopped speaking to a friend who had gone a step too far. Saw two wonderful Shakespeare plays at Stratford and got more drunk on them than I have on copious amounts of vodka before. Became shockingly jubilant over my studies, and took zeal to a new level. Feared the zeal wouldn’t last so worked harder to make sure it would: is it really zeal if you do that? Was told that the members of ‘Team Shakespeare’ were going to guide me through my final year Shakespeare module, and through ever-changing dimensions of the ‘Shakespace’. Pretended to be German for a night; it worked. Spent a mistaken weekend getting to know the corporate side of myself: a side I’d always hoped didn’t exist. The weekend neither confirmed nor denied this suspicion: it did however make the horror more real to me. Which was really a good thing, as horror is no less real if it is not real to me.

November

Wore a suit at a careers event I co-organised. Told a member of the Conservative Party at Warwick I was the president of the Anarchy Society. Saw an all-male production of The Taming of the Shrew during which the lead, wearing a kinky red leather jacket adorned with handcuffs, fell on top of me. Was offered some noodles by the best actor in the play. Spent an entire Saturday afternoon lying on the floor of my room, doubting that I’d do anything worthwhile with my life, and knowing that this self-wallowing would do nothing to help me and was not necessary, but it felt as though I couldn’t move. Saw Bollywood Othello at the cinema: looked forward to it for six weeks.

December

Had two turkey dinners in two days, for which I did no cooking. Rekindled my love for the X-Files, watching them after eating stew: two activities I have not indulged in for a long time. Actually experienced a decent night at the union, some pretty wild drum and bass. Wrote a blog entry trying to explain away the last twelve months, during which I realised how impossible a task it is, to wholly recpature this formative year of mine, but still, had a bitterly-sweet poignant half-hour or so of recollection, and contemplation.

: 11 Dec 2006 02:33 |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Where is my mind?

Oh, it went away.

For good.

: 27 Nov 2006 20:54 |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Large Scale Book Burnings Expected in Liverpool

Writing about web page http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/eng_prem/6094096.stm

Liverpool 2-0 Reading

Imagine my shock upon seeing this result: conclusive proof of all that we had feared to be true, but the more liberal amongst us had played down as cruel stereotype, fickle rumour, unfounded myth. Yet last weekend, oh how we were shown the error of our liberal ways- oh how. A death-match-knockout between the city of Liverpool and reading- that treasured ability of the educated to understand written language- was fought out- with bitter and devesating results.

Gizza break. Ace kecks. I gorra get me cozzy. Say dat again and I’ll twat yer one. In amongst such scally utterings, there came the decisive match between two opposing ends of an age-old polarity last Saturday, 4th November 2006: a date never to be forgotten by all Liverpudlian librarians, at least. The eternal feud between Liverpool and the literacy of Liverpudlians was played out, once and for all. Many maintained that Liverpool was actually a literacy-embracing city, having lifted their ban on literature over thirty years ago, and nowadays boasting three comprehensive schools for its 500,000 residents- not bad going for a city in which literacy was at one point punishable by flogging.

Tensions were high at the match. Liverpool got off to a flying start, having scored their first goal against literacy after fourteen minutes. Many sport critics were determined that reading would have the upper hand against its illiterate counterparts, as being able to read the names of all team mates on the backs of their shirts would add cohesion to their game tactics, but this was proved to be elementary as Liverpool stormed ahead, securing their second goal in the 73rd minute, proving conclusively, to the disappointment of many, illiteracy, accompanied with a general aversion to literature, has triumphed once and for all over the people of Liverpool. Questions are now being raised as to whether Liverpool should still gain the title of ‘Capital of Culture’, due to be awarded in 2008, in celebration of their 800th anniversary.

: 10 Nov 2006 14:26 |  Comments (4) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

I miss London and I Never Even Lived There

I was born in Northern Wales, the mountainious region of Welshness. The weather is at its gloomiest, the slate is at its the greyest, the beauty is at its wildest. Then, disaster struck at four years old. My father was offered a new job: we had to migrate to England. Oh England, country of larger louts and football hooligans. St. George fans, oppressors, vulgar dressers: England. And not just any old England, no: the South West of rural country England: Somerset. And there i grew up, with apple blemishes in my cheeks, and a fondness for cows. It continued thus, till I got the hell out, thanked my lucky stars, and cursed the inventor of all things yokel, and vowed never again to return to the realm of farming supreme. Never again. So I came to Warwick and I did look back, but only in agiation and fear, declaring a desire to never revisit all that was known. And that was all that was known. I have, as the title states, never lived in London. It’ll happen one day, I know it, I can’t actually think of anywhere in the UK where I would like to live except the capital, the , Weltstadt, the biggest and most cosmipolitan of all European cities, but I have not yet experieced it as an inhabitant. I do however miss it, as curious as that may be. I have a certain tender nostalgia when I hear anything even so slightly referring to childhood in London streets, and get sentimental pangs when even hearing utterings of odd London boroughs. I have an unresistable pride rising in my breast when disputing anything about the place, and can recall with ease anecdotes of how excellent the London population are as a whole. I could go on, I really could, about how very attached I feel to this city with only having really spent odd weekends there over the past five years, but really, it’s not about actual time, it must surely be about media intervention creating some type of nostalgic space in me to receive the idea of a conept they have implanted in my mind. Surely. Which kind of makes me hate the place, in a love-hate way: rather like the United States…it is some kind of brainwashing manipulation of the mind, making me miss something I don’t actually have the capacity in my own mind to miss, as no geuine memories of this place actually exist in that real way: what the hell is happening to me, goddam it, am I just a tool to be used in the higher agenda of some goddam system?

: 05 Nov 2006 03:05 |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Blog on my face: or, on my Facebook

One of Radiohead’s ultimate classics ,”Creep”, didn’t even reach no. 75 in the charts initially, only to be later exalted to the legendary status it deserved . It was written right in the middle of a really serious, eight-month obssession Thom Yorke had with a girl (apparently she knows who she is, but no-one else does), which coincidentally ended unsuccessfully. I have often uttered the words: “What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here” to myself; just as I have often woken up sucking a lemon, and in the same way, you would be first up against the wall were I to be king.

With the power of the internet I find myself having to utter this less; instead, I just have a virtual something or other to deal with. I have been blogging now for nearly two years, but only really got interested in the more recent past. The new extension of my virtual self: Facebook- I tried to resist, but with my return to Grand Britania I found myself, yet again, breaking under peer pressure, just like that time I started smoking, just like that time I dropped that one little ecstacy pill, just like that time I pimped out my sister’s nubile young body to truck drivers. No, wait, I don’t have a sister, shit, who did I do that to…my mum?

The Facebook/ blog phenomenen works both ways though: I now have a greater access to people, in the virtual sense, anyway. Which is kind of creepy, or maybe the way I find myself using it is creepy. Oh, how your skin makes me cry. I find myself spending time looking at people through the internet: I repeat and italisice: looking at people through the internet. Searching for people I know, people I don’t know, people I kind of know, people I’d rather not know, people I’d take a certain pleasure in were they to be tortured before my eyes.
This could mean a variety of things: let me list them for you.

a) I have too much spare time on my hands, and use this time in a friendly and positive manner, encouraging my tendency to embrace new people, and eagerly open all my senses- including my heart- to all information about themselves and their meaningful lives that they wish to share with me

b) I have too much spare time on hands and use this time ineffectively and rather creepily, akin to the workings an evil stalking genius, whilst wanting a perfect body, wanting a perfect soul

c) I don’t have enough time on my hands, and am thusly reduced to using the sparse periods of free time I have partaking in undemanding leisure activites that are achievable from the comfort of my desk chair, and that allow me access to a certain type of “social” contact in that I am presented with written discourse and human images, whilst simultaneoulsy avoiding actual contact with humans in any tangible form

d) I will one day become a 47-year-old insurance broker, who, in his spare time, poses as a lol-using teen in chatrooms, to entice naive young things to his lair. lol !

e) This world that we were brought up to love and defend is empty, and it is my task to fill it with whatever task I like, and, providing I can think up an ideology cunning enough to convince myself, any activity is permissable

f) Facebook is a pile of wank designed for frenzied socialties whose sole ambition in life is to prove quite how cool i) they are and ii) the social circles they move in are, whilst demonstrating to the sad world in the know the variety and wild excitement encompassed by their social lives, and whilst desperately trying to compensate for the lack of character they possess by the image they virtually emit. If you think that you’re strong enough, if you think that you belong enough.

g) If your home address is on facebook and I want to see you tortured, I’m now thinking about coming and hunting you down right now

h) I really want to facebook your mum; just imagine the possibilities

i) You’re so fucking special.

I do, in turn, recognise the possibility that people may be looking at me through the internet ! and relinquish the possibility that anyone deems me so unworthy as to avoid social interaction with me, as surely that must mean I’m some kind of threat/ challenge/ interesting character/ maniac, and eagerly anticipate anyone avoiding actual contact with me, to the point that they will instrument actual contact with me in some (mildly?) kinky way, e.g. through pimping me out to truckers or something equally as fabulous.

By the way everyone, I’m available now on Facebook! and have been for a two whole weeks or so now, and am so totally enjoying the experience. I so wrote this post three weeks ago, and then forgot about it, due to the pressure exerted on my mental agility. Finalism. Geez, it’s got to hurt. I’m saying this as this post would’ve then corresponded with the time I made “the switch”, as I am, all in all, a stickler for accuracy. Just as I am a stickler for EVERYONE knowing how great my social circles are !

: 26 Oct 2006 23:33 |  Comments (9) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Bleed, don't breed

Thinking about breeding?

Stop. Think again.

Aside from the fact that having a child seat fitted in you car makes you 10 times more likely to be the victim of racial abuse, there are many other considerations to take into account before taking the plunge into parenthood.

The fact that over 85% of children in the UK are the product of nuclear power plant accidents underlines some quite unnatural, some even say horrific tendencies that have become increasingly visible in modern-day conception. The result: many unknown, unpublicised and unbelieved facts about children today highlight some real danger areas that prospective parents should be aware of, but are denied the chance to discuss. Cowardice from the media, shame from those already burdened with children, and tory fascists are making sure that nobody gets to hear the shocking truth about children today. And I mean nobody.

Fact: up to 54% of children display mid to severe allergic reactions to radiators in the first four years of their lives. Parents across the globe often have to resort to expensive treatment not covered by most insurance policies to combat the allergy. The NHS, following recent controversy at families having to join 5-year waiting lists for the treatment, reported that “no initiatvies to make radiator-allergy-combatting drugs universally available will be implemented in the next 5 years at least”. Failing that, many poverty-stricken young families are reduced to turning off their central heating for winters on end.

Did you know that if the level of childbirth continues at the rate it is at the moment, by the year 2028, the level of ducks populating British lakes and canals will have dropped by over 70%? Modern-day babies secrete a slow-acting enzyme from their hair follicles that is fatal to the everyday British duck. What with new Government regulations making duck-feeding a compulsory activity for all young families, some scientists estimate that the duck may even be extinct as soon as 2049. Tensions have been high in animal activist groups. Most duck-related corporations have withdrawn all sponsorship of kindergartens and mothercares nationwide, leaving a big gap in many child-related firms.

Did you know that the average child nowadays only develops eyes at the age of 14? No? The current awareness in the British public regarding what it actually means to spawn children today is at a dangerously low level- my advice is to spread the word. And not your legs.

Disclaimer: anything said in the above text is based on real experiences, if the word ‘real’ means made-up, and if ‘experiences’ means lies

: 15 Oct 2006 00:22 |  Comments (6) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

think of a title: quick ! i'm going to press the 'publish now' button

man, this blog shit is addictive. it’s like saturday night, i sit down, say no, i’m not going to spend the loan i haven’t got yet on adding to the profits of some crappy skool dayz equivalent at the union (does anyone with decent taste actually like the union events? i mean the ones you have to fork out cash for. like ‘70s remebrance night’ or whatever it’s called. are we old enough to remember the 70s? if i were old enough, and sometimes i wish i were, as then i would have got through this year of my life already, and it’s shaping up to be a crappy year (wait, that’s not the right attitude to have, helen, scrap that), then i really hope i wouldn’t remember the year by donning vomit-coloured flares and those crappy fluffy wigs people wear when impersonating a 70s hippy, as then i’d realise, if you’re a moody teenager in a 21-yr-old body, it’s still shit, whether you’re wearing flares or not). and i’m certainly not going to wait sixty-odd cold minutes for some wheezing bus to come pick me up and drag me slowly through the loser-town kennilworth and eventually spit me out on the streets of royal leamington, to then choose between the delights of mirage or sugar or whatever they’re called nowadays, like i give a shit.

so what is the plan then, young fitton, what have you got penciled in under ‘saturday, 07 october, two thousand and six’ (which is also, incidentally, ‘succot- tabernacles- Jewish’. meaning that today is the first day of a 7-day holiday, one of the three major jewish holidays, reflecting “God’s benevolence in providing for all their needs in the desert.” combine wikipedia with my new warwick diary and a pinch of healthy curiosity, and really, you can learn something everyday)? the answer to that would be nothing, and a Big, Fat one at that. big and fat like your mum is. or mam, if your northernly inclined. Big, Fat Nothing in terms of anything social, that is, it’s not as though i’m doing nothing the whole night. because people say that, all the time: i’m doing absolutely nothing- if we look at the facts, made-up person i’ve plucked out of thin air to make a point, you’re not doing nothing, you’re sitting on the floor, staring at the third wall in your room whilst reflecting upon the pain of being human, all to human- whilst Warwick Univeristy authorities and other such ever so important bodies may rate that as highly unproductive and useless for society, it’s something, not nothing. so i was planning on spending this evening inside my claycroft walls, accompanied with my work, my work, my work. i should be one of those very productive and focused finalists, who now actually have an inkling re. the Rest of Their Lives, but it doesn’t seem to have worked out that way. at least not tonight, anyway. but hell, it could all change tomorrow, fickle is not my middle name, but it’d be an appropriate one. had my parents only been privy to this information when spawning and naming me. but that wouldn’t have been a very positive start and i’d probably end up resenting them- no, blaming them for it. which would make me 100% normal. hey, kid, i’m normal!

to continue the narrative, i’d been working all day, and i just couldn’t hack it, i guess i’m not super-duper hardcore, so at like 2100 i was stretched out in my kitchen with a highly enlightening essay on the political potential of melodrama as a film genre, but i just could not read anymore, the window was far more interesting (i live near claycroft and there are always people walking to and from tesco’s- some giggle, some hold hands, some walk with their heads down in what i like to think of as a (near-)suicidal manner, some skip, some push their friends in a shopping trolley (ok, that was only once, but i’ve been here a week, it’ll happen again, even if i have to make it happen. great, now i have a new way to avoid work and forget the void of being: get my friends in a shopping trolley and push them.). so then i think: vacate the kitchen, maybe the nice guy who lives below you has finally turned off his goddam bass and you can get on with that pressing translation. ok, so it’s for wednesday, but it’s always a good idea to get everything done before deadlines- it’ll make you happy ! so i sit down, get my mozilla web browser out, and i’m off typing words i don’t know in german into my online dictionary (http://dict.leo.org/ is the best thing ever. it’s super double plus good). but then i think ‘weeell, i’ll just quickly check my blog and about 40 billion other blogs which i don’t really like but am kind of interested in, and i simply have to check those blogs that i actually do like’, and then suddenly it’s 01:17, so it’s no longer saturday, and it’s the second day of succot, and five hours or something stupid like that have passed, and i’ve done nothing productive, according to the important bodies and according to my own little hierachy of judgement, and, worse still, i’ve been reading some blogs by people who seem to be fairly- well, maybe not happy, how on earth can you be happy and damn cool at this age- but they certainly don’t seem to be lonely, and they’re lively, and out there, connecting to people and just…just…

...they’re just…regarding something i wrote just like two minutes and one long and depressing paragraph ago, maybe i should rectify the overwhelming negativity, and make it closer to just ‘down-in-the-dumps’. or maybe not. pressure is a good night in the union, and it’s one of those events they make you fork cash out for, whether you have the cash or not, so i suppose that was a slight inaccuracy. i’m still going to describe the inaccuracy as ‘slight’ though, rather that say something like: i was a goddam fool, what was i thinking, i couldn’t have been more wrong, give me my flares, there’s only an hour left of 70s night or equivalent at union, but to hell with it, i’m running down there to fork out some money and have the time of my life.
no.
what i am going to say though, is that this realisation – of the slight inaccuracy i made- is also quite depressing, as it was the 10th anniversary of pressure last Thursday, and they had (amongst others) Adam F, who people slag off for being ‘so goddam commercial, and i’m soo alternative that i can only listen to people that only five other people know, and all the other five people have to be super cool and aloof, or i’m not playing’, and DJ Version (I did vote Version). but no, i did not pencil in ‘pressure’ for 5th october two thousand and five, i did not attend, no, no, no. i’m not really sure i want to say why, as it is going to seem crappy and pathetic, but i guess i have started (anyway, what do i care, it’s not as though anyone’s going to read this, apart from people wanting to sell lingerie). i’m one of those fourth year finalists, you see, so some of the people i used to spend that delight that is free time with have flown away to a better place, leaving me with people whom i like, really, truly, (i only like a small elite of them though, believe me), but who don’t like drum and bass, or get wrecked in quite the same way i do, or like philosophy (is that really what i mean…?), or fulfill this huge list of requirements that i have tattooed on my heart.

jesus, i’m such a fucking ray of sunshine. i’m going to go find some friends and a shopping trolley, that’ll show them all.

: 08 Oct 2006 01:59 |  Comments (12) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Too Lite on the news?– Associated Newspapers, what are you doing to us?

Ikea, H & M, a pleasant location for Nobel Prize ceremonies, annoyingly beautiful girls, an intriguing form of affluent communism- sorry, liberal socialism (what was I thinking?)- there’s a lot we have to be thankful to Sweden for. Not least my topic for today- free newspapers.

Stockholm, 1995- the birth of the free newspaper. The start of a trend that has caught the attention of many in Britain in the last few weeks, with the arrival of London Lite, another freebie akin to the already well-established Metro, both competing against the quality _Evening Standard. _Yet all three newspapers are published by the same company- Associated Newspapers- which begs the question: why are they introducing another free paper, doing pretty much the same job as the 50p paper, onto the same market? The freebie newspaper market is meant to entice the busy, urban and youthful readership, ages 15- 45- optimal for advertising, which is why they can rely on advertising as their main source of funding. But surely, this must pose a threat to quality journalism?

Not living in our capital city, I cannot compare the newspapers (even though half of the 1.1 million copies of the _Metro _are distributed outside of London), but I can draw parallels between this and the goings-on in my local area. Ok, so on the one hand, my 35,000-large home town is hardly comparable to Europe’s largest city- a fact that has been pointed out to this local yokel. A fancy London friend of mine once asked me if I’d ever been in my local paper; when I replied ‘numerous times’, elaborating that really the paper had faithfully charted various successes and excursions I experienced as a schoolgirl, fancy Londoner dissolved into scathing laughter. With such headlines as ‘Street Party Success Tops Last Year’s’, ‘Church Fête raises £1,120’, and the absolute classic I read last week: ‘Mystery Surrounds Deaths of Six Otters’ (a prominent headline on pg. 2, may I add, followed by the ominous sub-heading ‘More bodies may be found’), I see fancy Londoner’s point, however I still maintain that quality journalism reporting all local happenings- including a potential outbreak of otter black death- is crucial: it makes my little yokel dwelling so much more civilized.

And comparing the otter-reporting weekly, priced at 45p, to the other two newspapers based in my home town of 35,000- both of which are free- there is a strongly discernable difference. The two freebies display latest property offers, but the rest of the paper is advert upon brash advert, with the odd article pushed in a corner: articles repeating the same local occurrences as in the 45p weekly, but less detailed and more condensed- the priority being of course the advertising companies, as they do finance (and assert significant control over, when necessary) the content of the news. Move this up to the larger scale of the likes of London Lite, _and you have a very unwelcome and dire threat to quality journalism. News reported with journalistic integrity, and adhering to journalistic principles, improves community spirit and awareness: the good but small fight is fought, it makes a difference, and citizens need to be prepared to spend 45p, or 50p as in the case of the _Evening Standard, on quality journalism, rather than putting up with dedicating a disgusting percentage of page space to ads and attributing a percentage of press power the advertising.

Potentially, the internet still poses a bigger threat to quality printed press in comparison, but this trend of free newspapers is still a significant blow to all that constitutes good journalism.

Thanks, Sweden.

: 05 Oct 2006 01:12 |  Comments (4) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Oh Microsoft Internet Explorer, your number 7 update is as bad as expected…

So Microsoft Internet Explorer has got a new version out, and me being me, and loving shiny new downloads on my trusty laptop, thought it incumbent to download it, despite the fact that I am a mozilla fan. But anything new is fun for at least five minutes, so worth the precious minutes I could be studying… isn’t it?

Well, with that ominous note, it clearly isn’t worth it. I had to download four individual components (for what is, may I add, just a new version of IE), I had to wait 15 minutes and not use any other programmes whilst doing that (with super fast broadband connection from my also shiny new spot on campus)- they even made me download a verification code and enter it in the third process of this ordeal. The new IE thought I was offline when I first used it (a mistake I’m sure mozilla would never make), causing a further two minutes of my precious morning time to rectify this rooky mistake. This version is clearly heavily influenced by mozilla, which is used more often that IE on the continent- the tab function, the larger reading space for the website, the compacted toolbars are clearly three aspects which have been available with mozilla for a while and three of the aspects they have poached. I haven’t quite figured out if IE offers the wonderful extensions that make mozilla what it is- but if they have then they certainly got the idea, again, from mozilla. The Microsoft website says “We’ve been listening” when offering the new improved version- yes, they clearly have been listening- to the multitudes of people who, quite rightly, say that mozilla is far superior.

: 02 Oct 2006 10:03 |  Comments (44) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

‘The phonies were coming in the goddam window”– not quite what you might be expecting.

No, don’t be alarmed, I’m not writing about The Catcher in the Rye, despite the references to goddam phonies. Although I would like to, having poured over it innumerable times in the depths of teenage blues, and beyond- and the protagonist being my first true love at the age of 13 (who could resist a 17yr old who says: “Sex is something I really don’t understand too hot. You never know where the hell you are”?). But it’s part an unwillingness to align myself with John Lennon’s assassinator Mark Chapman- who famously held Salinger’s book when committing the infamous act-, part avoidance of cliché, and part total fascination with a less-known writer whom I heard of through Holden Caulfield, protagonist of Catcher.

Ring Lardner- one of the few writers whom Holden would very much like to ring up and chat to (that is his definition of a top class author), one of the highest-paid US authors of his time, one of the not-quite forgotten greats. What attracts me to his works is the authenticity of the real American voices he captures, and the ambivalence with which he treats these voices. A friend of mine, also claiming Catcher to be one of her ‘significant’ books (a claim held my many, and a claim also not altogether invalidated by the number of people who make it), was trying to describe to me Franny and Zooey (another book of Salinger’s). I foolishly asked: “What happens in it?”, to which she mockingly replied: “Well, what happens in Catcher?”. ‘A young man leaves school and runs off to NYC for a couple of days’ hardly captures the essence of this book- because the essence of this book does not lie in its plot: instead, its power lies in its protagonist’s voice, the style of the narrative, and this like Lardner at his most modern. Take, for example, the short story that has been dubbed his most modern and experimental: Golden Honeymoon. It depicts a couple taking a winter holiday in Florida in a resort filled with elderly people. They meet another couple there, and the huisband of this couple is a former beau of the narrator’s wife. They pass the time together, play games, quarrel, then depart from each other’s company. That’s is, as far as plot goes, but it is the style that makes this narrative.

David Lodge describes this short story as: “positively Chekhovian in the flawless realm of its surface and the ambiguity of its import”. I remember being enthralled by the discovery that it was OK to be bored by Chekhov because Chekhov was meant to be boring- precisely because life is boring (after that, he became significantly less boring). Life is largely constituted by trivial occurrences and daily humdrum- so where is the truth-value in writing something chock-full of melodrama, when it represents perhaps 5% of our existence?
But the real question with Lardner and his beautiful ambiguity is: does he redeem these characters, through the honesty and humour in his depiction of pure, ordinary humanness, or does he condemn them for this banal, ordinary humanness? Is this affection, or damnation? The cynical heavy drinker, whose enjoyment of liquor (I’m far too hedonistic to write “weakness for”) contributed significantly to his premature death, was far too wry to be truly ‘affectionate’, but all too human to be misanthropic. His greatest strength lies in his ability to so accurately (and hilariously) capture the semi-literate vernacular of the ordinary American people- an ability which furthers this ambiguity.

According to Dorothy Parker: “Lardner, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Hemingway- they were the real giants”. Yet the latter three’s fame surely far outstrips Lardner’s- and why? The lack of novel is the answer to that question, or so it seems to me. Everyone has at least heard of The Great Gatsby, The Sound and The Fury, Fiesta, but Alibi Ike? It is an inevitable fact that, if the writer limits himself, or finds himself limited, to short narratives, they also limit their long-term impact. Lardner himself once wrote: “I seldom write a story of more that 5000 words- my mind seems geared to that length”. Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges- one of the greats from the South American literary scene- also only wrote short poetry and prose pieces, due to what critics have called a “lofty laziness” and was dubbed “probably the greatest writer to never receive the Nobel Prize”. There must be a tenable link between lack of prestige- in whatever form- and lack of novel, although there is certainly no link, tenable or not, between the lack of novel and lack of good quality writing- just a hint, perhaps, of some wasted potential.

Although Lardner’s name remains highly praised by Holden, one of the most famous and widely-read anti-heroes of our times, that might not be enough to keep him in print in the long run, as for a period not that long ago in Britain many of Lardner’s narratives were no longer in print. Maybe he wouldn’t have even viewed Salinger’s homage with much reverence. But his short stories truly are high quality writing- or, as Caulfield puts it, he’s “at least funny once in a while”.

: 30 Sep 2006 15:48 |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem