When I was younger I heard someone say, "You can never go home again". I have never really believed this.
Coming back to Newcastle means seeing my family and of course, my friends.
These are friends that I grew up with, went to school with, first got drunk with and celebrated A-Level results with before we all went our separate ways.
I've always tried to keep in touch with a lot of these people - they are all brilliant in their own unique ways.
I don't always get to see most of them as much as I would like though. Some have moved away, some have varying work commitments and others have started families of their own - something completely remote to the world in which I revolve.
Recently a friend of mine, Daniel Bolger, got a lot of us together, including people I haven't seen for years. It was so strange to see everyone again.
Louise - my best and weirdest friend from High School.
Jenny - the girl I sat next to in GCSE Maths.
Liam - a musical genius and my drumming idol.
Gemma - my favourite playmate in Primary School.
Ryan - my High School crush for a long time.
Ruth - the RE teacher's daughter.
Of course, there were many more - such an eclectic bunch of people. People I'm proud to say I know.
Daniel too. A maths graduate from Cambridge University, an incredibly talented musician and a great person.
On November 26, Daniel was reported missing from his home in Cambridge.
On Thursday December 7, Daniel's body was found in the River Cam.
It is a tragedy that it was only an event as devastating and as crushing as this which brought my old school and college friends together.
I often regret not keeping in touch with many of the people I was such good friends with all those years ago.
I will always regret not keeping in touch with Dan as much as I could have.
My friends are so important to me. They make up a second family - people I turn to when my parents, brother or sister can't help.
I know that these friendships will be eternal. The amount of time between seeing each other might inevitably increase with age but one thing I am sure of is that they will always have time for me.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Trains, (No) Planes and Automobiles.
This past week I've done the King's Cross-Newcastle route three times.
Something I can always expect is an uncomfortable journey - usually caused by crap seats.
There is no feasible way to ensure comfort. I always get neck pains and find it easier to slouch but this in turn causes back pain...
I started thinking of this blog at 10:15pm on December 14. I expect to arrive in Newcastle at 1am and I'm Having a truly joyous journey.
Sense the sarcasm.
Having set off with 'enough' time to catch the train, I was met with horror just outside Baker Street, where the tube stopped for 20 minutes.
I have never prayed so hard to be on time in my life and almost cried as hope seemed to fade.
Thankfully, I made it into King's Cross with 30 minutes to spare. Phew!
Little did I know, but a further disaster awaited...
The usually very helpful people at GNER had managed to mess up my tickets which the 'Fast' Ticket machine refused to spit out. Nightmare.
I join the queue and I wait.
I continue to wait.
I approach the counter and explain my problem.
"Call Telesales using the red phone at the end of the desk," I'm told.
The phone looks like some sort of political hot line from the Cold War. And that's exactly what it was. Cold.
I rejoin the queue.
I approach the counter.
I explain the problem. Again.
After waiting and crying like a complete neurotic, the lady eventually prints me a new ticket.
Five minutes to departure. Shit.
I run. People get in my way and my blood boils. But still I run and by some miracle (it is Christmas after all), I get on the train and slump into my seat.
Time to relax. Or so I thought...
I really hate it when all you want to do is sit back, chill out and have a peaceful journey home, but two hyperactive five-year-olds ruin it for you.
Surely at 10.30 at night the little cretins would be too worn out to create untold amounts of noise?! Not so.
They giggle and they scream, causing me to frown like a disapproving old lady.
Normally kids don't bother me, but right now I'm tired, irritable and in a right foul fettle. So much so that if I had magic powers, my eyes would definitely be shooting daggers at all and sundry!
I have over two hours left of this agony.
All I can do is pray that the brats actually manage to wear themselves out and fall asleep, providing me with the much longed for peaceful atmosphere in carriage E of the 21:00 GNER service to Newcastle.
Well, it is nearly Christmas and sometimes miracles do actually happen...
Something I can always expect is an uncomfortable journey - usually caused by crap seats.
There is no feasible way to ensure comfort. I always get neck pains and find it easier to slouch but this in turn causes back pain...
I started thinking of this blog at 10:15pm on December 14. I expect to arrive in Newcastle at 1am and I'm Having a truly joyous journey.
Sense the sarcasm.
Having set off with 'enough' time to catch the train, I was met with horror just outside Baker Street, where the tube stopped for 20 minutes.
I have never prayed so hard to be on time in my life and almost cried as hope seemed to fade.
Thankfully, I made it into King's Cross with 30 minutes to spare. Phew!
Little did I know, but a further disaster awaited...
The usually very helpful people at GNER had managed to mess up my tickets which the 'Fast' Ticket machine refused to spit out. Nightmare.
I join the queue and I wait.
I continue to wait.
I approach the counter and explain my problem.
"Call Telesales using the red phone at the end of the desk," I'm told.
The phone looks like some sort of political hot line from the Cold War. And that's exactly what it was. Cold.
I rejoin the queue.
I approach the counter.
I explain the problem. Again.
After waiting and crying like a complete neurotic, the lady eventually prints me a new ticket.
Five minutes to departure. Shit.
I run. People get in my way and my blood boils. But still I run and by some miracle (it is Christmas after all), I get on the train and slump into my seat.
Time to relax. Or so I thought...
I really hate it when all you want to do is sit back, chill out and have a peaceful journey home, but two hyperactive five-year-olds ruin it for you.
Surely at 10.30 at night the little cretins would be too worn out to create untold amounts of noise?! Not so.
They giggle and they scream, causing me to frown like a disapproving old lady.
Normally kids don't bother me, but right now I'm tired, irritable and in a right foul fettle. So much so that if I had magic powers, my eyes would definitely be shooting daggers at all and sundry!
I have over two hours left of this agony.
All I can do is pray that the brats actually manage to wear themselves out and fall asleep, providing me with the much longed for peaceful atmosphere in carriage E of the 21:00 GNER service to Newcastle.
Well, it is nearly Christmas and sometimes miracles do actually happen...
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Call For Articles
I've just spent the last four hours trying to complete my one features page for the next issue of The Smoke.
I did not finish and I'm literally pulling my hair out!
Not to worry though - its not that great a features page!
But, if any Westminster students have any features they would like to see in The Smoke after Christmas, I will not say 'no'!
Also, I'm really interested in any travel writing as well as anything else - send me an email: smokefeatures@gmail.com
This is all.
I did not finish and I'm literally pulling my hair out!
Not to worry though - its not that great a features page!
But, if any Westminster students have any features they would like to see in The Smoke after Christmas, I will not say 'no'!
Also, I'm really interested in any travel writing as well as anything else - send me an email: smokefeatures@gmail.com
This is all.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
12.05 University of Westminster
The main film studio, Harrow Campus.
Brightness. Big metal lights with big, black shutters glare.
“What you doin’ there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
The Essay.
Laughter and murmur.
“Anne sent an email”
Clink clink. Metal on metal. Screws unwind and come loose.
Tap tap. Bang.
“What kind of thing do you get analysed on for our essay?”
“What you mean?”
Mumble mumble. Inaudible sounds.
“Detail, detail, detail.”
Cone Head.
Lights glare.
PVC and a cone head. Red finger nails and a huge hooked nose – he looks confused. Is this normal? Everyone acts normal. They know what they are doing.
“Can I steal this chair?”
Cone head rolls the red chair away, wheels giggling on the floor.
A blonde girl wraps her hair around her fingers and talks about bread.
Cone head roams the room. Uncomfortably. The bread is fascinating.
Bang bang.
“Don’t move. We’re ready.”
“Are you guys filmin now?”
“I’ll sort you’re ‘ed out.”
The red finger nails caress the cone head.
Voices lower, inaudible murmurs.
Rustle rustle.
Cone head glides across the room, his black PVC cloak swooshing with his every movement.
“Does your nose get in the way of drinking that?”
“I need some sort of straw.”
“Imagine doin’ coke with a nose like that!”
Cone head admires his nails: “At this moment I couldn’t be much happier with life. It expresses my inner joy.”
“He was meant to be a Jew wasn’t he?!”
The Girl in The Green Jumper.
“Does anyone mind if I go out for a cigarette?”
Feet pace. Tapping sounds. Tap tap. Tap tap.
A zip. Rustling in a bag.
“Cunningly disguised as work”
The girl in green rolls a cigarette, tobacco falling to the floor. She taps her cigarette on the faux wood, cheap plastic table. A sound faintly heard.
She rustles her tobacco pouch and plays with a lighter.
Click click. It works. A yellow flame rises from its red encasement and she leaves.
Gaffa Tape.
The purple curtain drapes itself over a white wooden board.
“Where’s the rubber bit that needs to be on there? We need gaffa tape.”
A light goes out. A little less brightness in the black room.
“Hang on! I need to get some gaffa tape!”
“We need to take this camera off and reattach it.”
Clap clap. Clap clap. Click click.
The music of hands against thighs and fingers snapping.
The boy in the red t-shirt paces, his jaw clenching as he chews gum.
Money and keys jangle in pockets. Feet slide and scrape. Sniffing stuffy noses.
“Right down on the floor.”
The lines of ancient gaffa tape are right down on the floor. A mesh of wires snake around one another in a central heap.
“Anyone seen the roll of camera tape round ere?”
Bags rustle and feet scrape.
Gaffa tape. Everywhere. Everyone has gaffa tape.
“Where’s the fuckin line?!”
Focusing.
Scrape, screech. The chair moves.
Yawns and sighs.
Papers rustle.
“Is it focused?”
“Yes”
“What about now?”
“No”
“Tell me when it looks focused.”
The Shirtless Boy.
“The light readings”
Glaring. Bright. Blinding.
A boy sits in their focus. Shirtless. On his knees.
“What do you want me to do?”
Squeak. The chair again.
The boy squirms.
More lights. Brighter.
Laughter. Murmur. Fingers tap and pens roll.
Patter patter patter. Feet wander the room.
“Stand by on set!”
Silence.
“Action!”
The boy under the lights stares at his hands.
Darkness, except for a faint glimmer of light from the corridor.
Tap tap tap tap.
The relentless tapping pursues its cause.
“Cut!”
Brightness. Big metal lights with big, black shutters glare.
“What you doin’ there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
The Essay.
Laughter and murmur.
“Anne sent an email”
Clink clink. Metal on metal. Screws unwind and come loose.
Tap tap. Bang.
“What kind of thing do you get analysed on for our essay?”
“What you mean?”
Mumble mumble. Inaudible sounds.
“Detail, detail, detail.”
Cone Head.
Lights glare.
PVC and a cone head. Red finger nails and a huge hooked nose – he looks confused. Is this normal? Everyone acts normal. They know what they are doing.
“Can I steal this chair?”
Cone head rolls the red chair away, wheels giggling on the floor.
A blonde girl wraps her hair around her fingers and talks about bread.
Cone head roams the room. Uncomfortably. The bread is fascinating.
Bang bang.
“Don’t move. We’re ready.”
“Are you guys filmin now?”
“I’ll sort you’re ‘ed out.”
The red finger nails caress the cone head.
Voices lower, inaudible murmurs.
Rustle rustle.
Cone head glides across the room, his black PVC cloak swooshing with his every movement.
“Does your nose get in the way of drinking that?”
“I need some sort of straw.”
“Imagine doin’ coke with a nose like that!”
Cone head admires his nails: “At this moment I couldn’t be much happier with life. It expresses my inner joy.”
“He was meant to be a Jew wasn’t he?!”
The Girl in The Green Jumper.
“Does anyone mind if I go out for a cigarette?”
Feet pace. Tapping sounds. Tap tap. Tap tap.
A zip. Rustling in a bag.
“Cunningly disguised as work”
The girl in green rolls a cigarette, tobacco falling to the floor. She taps her cigarette on the faux wood, cheap plastic table. A sound faintly heard.
She rustles her tobacco pouch and plays with a lighter.
Click click. It works. A yellow flame rises from its red encasement and she leaves.
Gaffa Tape.
The purple curtain drapes itself over a white wooden board.
“Where’s the rubber bit that needs to be on there? We need gaffa tape.”
A light goes out. A little less brightness in the black room.
“Hang on! I need to get some gaffa tape!”
“We need to take this camera off and reattach it.”
Clap clap. Clap clap. Click click.
The music of hands against thighs and fingers snapping.
The boy in the red t-shirt paces, his jaw clenching as he chews gum.
Money and keys jangle in pockets. Feet slide and scrape. Sniffing stuffy noses.
“Right down on the floor.”
The lines of ancient gaffa tape are right down on the floor. A mesh of wires snake around one another in a central heap.
“Anyone seen the roll of camera tape round ere?”
Bags rustle and feet scrape.
Gaffa tape. Everywhere. Everyone has gaffa tape.
“Where’s the fuckin line?!”
Focusing.
Scrape, screech. The chair moves.
Yawns and sighs.
Papers rustle.
“Is it focused?”
“Yes”
“What about now?”
“No”
“Tell me when it looks focused.”
The Shirtless Boy.
“The light readings”
Glaring. Bright. Blinding.
A boy sits in their focus. Shirtless. On his knees.
“What do you want me to do?”
Squeak. The chair again.
The boy squirms.
More lights. Brighter.
Laughter. Murmur. Fingers tap and pens roll.
Patter patter patter. Feet wander the room.
“Stand by on set!”
Silence.
“Action!”
The boy under the lights stares at his hands.
Darkness, except for a faint glimmer of light from the corridor.
Tap tap tap tap.
The relentless tapping pursues its cause.
“Cut!”
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Just a thought but...
I was shocked to read in today’s Independent that Janjaweed’s scorched earth policy sees no signs of slowing down, never mind coming to a stop.
After terrorising the people of Darfur, the militia has now crossed the border to reign terror in Chad.
Innocent and defenceless men, women and children have been burnt to death as their attackers shout “This is our land now. This will become the second republic of Sudan.”
Although I’m probably repeating something I wrote in an earlier blog, I’m still bewildered at how easily and quickly events like this take place. How they are even allowed to take place.
UN peace keeping talks concerning have halted once again while the Sudanese government has a think about how many troops they will allow to enter the region. That is, if they allow any troops to enter at all.
According to the article in The Independent, at least 23 villages in eastern Chad have been attacked since November 4.
To my mind, the actions which the Janjaweed militia is executing, with what seems like implicit support from the Sudanese government, are actions of
genocide.
They are explicitly targeting an ethnic group and murdering them as we look elsewhere.
This might be really daft, but I simply do not understand how it can be allowed to happen following the lessons we supposedly ‘learnt’ from Rwanda, Bosnia and the Holocaust.
After terrorising the people of Darfur, the militia has now crossed the border to reign terror in Chad.
Innocent and defenceless men, women and children have been burnt to death as their attackers shout “This is our land now. This will become the second republic of Sudan.”
Although I’m probably repeating something I wrote in an earlier blog, I’m still bewildered at how easily and quickly events like this take place. How they are even allowed to take place.
UN peace keeping talks concerning have halted once again while the Sudanese government has a think about how many troops they will allow to enter the region. That is, if they allow any troops to enter at all.
According to the article in The Independent, at least 23 villages in eastern Chad have been attacked since November 4.
To my mind, the actions which the Janjaweed militia is executing, with what seems like implicit support from the Sudanese government, are actions of
genocide.
They are explicitly targeting an ethnic group and murdering them as we look elsewhere.
This might be really daft, but I simply do not understand how it can be allowed to happen following the lessons we supposedly ‘learnt’ from Rwanda, Bosnia and the Holocaust.
Monday, November 13, 2006
On Charity
A few weeks ago I was approached by someone asking me to sign a petition on behalf of the Oxfam ‘I’m In’ campaign.
I signed, mainly because he wasn’t hounding me for money like most charities seem to endorse. (See Chris Illman’s blog…)
To be honest, I didn’t really know much about the campaign.
Today however, I learnt a little bit more…
‘I’m In’ seeks to end world poverty and find long term solutions to the problem, much like the now very well known ‘Make Poverty History’ campaign.
It also aims to provide essential things to the people living in poverty stricken countries, including water.
Water is brilliant but it is just one of the many things that every day millions of us take for granted.
Water is something which I often forget that I couldn’t live without - we wash with it, water the plants, wash the car and drink it.
Water is beneficial to survive - it is a fact that most people would die within three days without it.
I can’t remember the last time I was really thirsty. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever been really, really thirsty.
I’ve never had to drink dirty, unhealthy water because it was the only thing available. I’m lucky because I don’t lack clean water or proper sanitation.
5,000 children die every day because of dirty water according to a recent report in the Guardian.
The United Nations Development Programme has also reported that this is not because of water scarcity but is due to poverty, inequality and government failures.
The main countries which suffer from this deficit include Bangladesh, Niger, Cambodia, Ethiopia and Mozambique.
With climate change as well, there will come the inevitable changes such as warmer summers and extreme winters.
But this will also reduce the availability of water, lower agricultural production and cause yet more hunger in these already poverty stricken countries.
Although there is little I can do to stop climate change, I feel so bad because I desperately want to do something to help.
I have so much more than so many people in the world, but as ridiculous as it sounds, I can’t afford to donate.
I signed, mainly because he wasn’t hounding me for money like most charities seem to endorse. (See Chris Illman’s blog…)
To be honest, I didn’t really know much about the campaign.
Today however, I learnt a little bit more…
‘I’m In’ seeks to end world poverty and find long term solutions to the problem, much like the now very well known ‘Make Poverty History’ campaign.
It also aims to provide essential things to the people living in poverty stricken countries, including water.
Water is brilliant but it is just one of the many things that every day millions of us take for granted.
Water is something which I often forget that I couldn’t live without - we wash with it, water the plants, wash the car and drink it.
Water is beneficial to survive - it is a fact that most people would die within three days without it.
I can’t remember the last time I was really thirsty. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever been really, really thirsty.
I’ve never had to drink dirty, unhealthy water because it was the only thing available. I’m lucky because I don’t lack clean water or proper sanitation.
5,000 children die every day because of dirty water according to a recent report in the Guardian.
The United Nations Development Programme has also reported that this is not because of water scarcity but is due to poverty, inequality and government failures.
The main countries which suffer from this deficit include Bangladesh, Niger, Cambodia, Ethiopia and Mozambique.
With climate change as well, there will come the inevitable changes such as warmer summers and extreme winters.
But this will also reduce the availability of water, lower agricultural production and cause yet more hunger in these already poverty stricken countries.
Although there is little I can do to stop climate change, I feel so bad because I desperately want to do something to help.
I have so much more than so many people in the world, but as ridiculous as it sounds, I can’t afford to donate.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Technological Apocalypse
As great as technology is with all the things it is able to do and the wonders it can provide the modern age, I hate it with a passion - but only when it goes wrong or doesn’t do what I want it to do.
I recently uninstalled a useless program from my laptop which was designed to connect with my mobile phone.
Pretty straightforward operation – choose ‘uninstall’.
No. It was not so simple.
When I uninstalled it, it took other non-program related files with it.
These files aren’t ultra-necessary for my life but I wouldn’t mind knowing where the hell they’ve gone!
Following the advice of a friend I’m patiently for a virus scan to complete. Just in case.
‘Patiently’ is a lie.
I’m actually pulling my hair out in frustration and close to theoretically murdering all technology.
Although having previously ‘judo-chopped’ my laptop in an Austin Powers style, I’m slowly reconsidering this as a course of action.
Marjory (that’s my laptop) did not respond well to this – the letter ‘G’ flew off the keyboard and whacked me in the face. I did manage to reposition is thankfully.
I think it is fairly safe to say that I am a sufferer of Technology Rage.
If it doesn’t work as its supposed to or how I want it to, I resort to giving it a bang/kick/chop.
Failing that, I hurl some sort of profane abuse – ‘For F$*k’s sake man!’ being an old favourite.
Yes, when I’m angry I have a filthy potty mouth. Not exactly the behaviour of a lady, but a valid expression of emotion all the same.
It simply puzzles me at times that in an age where technology is pretty much the must-have accessory for everything, it can and will go wrong!
So to conclude, this evening I have learnt three things…
1. Technology (Marjory in particular) is not my friend.
2. My laptop does not have a virus.
3. I have slight issues with my rage.
I recently uninstalled a useless program from my laptop which was designed to connect with my mobile phone.
Pretty straightforward operation – choose ‘uninstall’.
No. It was not so simple.
When I uninstalled it, it took other non-program related files with it.
These files aren’t ultra-necessary for my life but I wouldn’t mind knowing where the hell they’ve gone!
Following the advice of a friend I’m patiently for a virus scan to complete. Just in case.
‘Patiently’ is a lie.
I’m actually pulling my hair out in frustration and close to theoretically murdering all technology.
Although having previously ‘judo-chopped’ my laptop in an Austin Powers style, I’m slowly reconsidering this as a course of action.
Marjory (that’s my laptop) did not respond well to this – the letter ‘G’ flew off the keyboard and whacked me in the face. I did manage to reposition is thankfully.
I think it is fairly safe to say that I am a sufferer of Technology Rage.
If it doesn’t work as its supposed to or how I want it to, I resort to giving it a bang/kick/chop.
Failing that, I hurl some sort of profane abuse – ‘For F$*k’s sake man!’ being an old favourite.
Yes, when I’m angry I have a filthy potty mouth. Not exactly the behaviour of a lady, but a valid expression of emotion all the same.
It simply puzzles me at times that in an age where technology is pretty much the must-have accessory for everything, it can and will go wrong!
So to conclude, this evening I have learnt three things…
1. Technology (Marjory in particular) is not my friend.
2. My laptop does not have a virus.
3. I have slight issues with my rage.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Nip Tuck
It was around this time last year that I started giving serious consideration to going under the knife.
Following a pretty horrific accident, my nose has bothered me more than ever.
It is ridiculous though because there is nothing visibly wrong to anyone else, yet on a daily basis I scrutinize its appearance.
I’ve managed to convince myself that it is wonky and dabbled with scars.
When I do finally manage to think like a reasonable human being however, it is obvious that the only scars I have are psychological.
Subconsciously I feel that people are examining my face and the damage that was caused. In response I automatically cover the problem area as best I can.
I’m a rather self-conscious person anyway so this complex I have just makes it worse at times.
A large part of it is the discomfort I feel on occasion.
My nose is clinically disfigured and whenever I get a headache my nose feels it too. It pulsates.
In fact, it often feels as though it has doubled, maybe even tripled in size and this is no exaggeration. It is even tender to touch most of the time.
But is rhinoplasty really an option?
Our attitudes to cosmetic surgery in general are changing rapidly.
According to research carried out by various bodies, including the British Association of Plastic Surgeons, there will be an estimated 690,000 procedures undertaken this year. (Thanks to the Daily Mail for this information).
The idea of surgery itself is a relatively daunting one and no doubt painful.
A nose job costs anything from £4,500 to £6,000 and there are two possible methods, one of which will leave slight scarring.
When you wake from the surgery, which can last up to three hours, its highly likely that you will look and feel as though you have gone ten rounds in a ring with Mike Tyson. It will also take up to six months before your true profile will be seen.
Besides all the money, time and pain, it isn’t always certain that the results will be exactly what you want.
So why is it that so many people are content to spend so much in the quest for ‘perfection’?
Society places such a huge emphasis on an unattainable idea of perfection.
The size zero, botoxed, nipped and tucked celebrities that we see in the press, on our TVs, on our billboards, everywhere aren’t as perfect as they are made out to be.
They have gone under the knife and they are an outrageous size of skinny.
They aren’t perfect – they have been constructed. Put together like cloned machines.
Furthermore, size zero simply connotes ‘nothing’ to me and to be honest I’d much rather be ‘something’.
I can learn to live with my imperfections because ultimately, they are who I am.
They are signs that I am an individual and if we’re going to be deep, they are signs that I am a perfect version of me.
Following a pretty horrific accident, my nose has bothered me more than ever.
It is ridiculous though because there is nothing visibly wrong to anyone else, yet on a daily basis I scrutinize its appearance.
I’ve managed to convince myself that it is wonky and dabbled with scars.
When I do finally manage to think like a reasonable human being however, it is obvious that the only scars I have are psychological.
Subconsciously I feel that people are examining my face and the damage that was caused. In response I automatically cover the problem area as best I can.
I’m a rather self-conscious person anyway so this complex I have just makes it worse at times.
A large part of it is the discomfort I feel on occasion.
My nose is clinically disfigured and whenever I get a headache my nose feels it too. It pulsates.
In fact, it often feels as though it has doubled, maybe even tripled in size and this is no exaggeration. It is even tender to touch most of the time.
But is rhinoplasty really an option?
Our attitudes to cosmetic surgery in general are changing rapidly.
According to research carried out by various bodies, including the British Association of Plastic Surgeons, there will be an estimated 690,000 procedures undertaken this year. (Thanks to the Daily Mail for this information).
The idea of surgery itself is a relatively daunting one and no doubt painful.
A nose job costs anything from £4,500 to £6,000 and there are two possible methods, one of which will leave slight scarring.
When you wake from the surgery, which can last up to three hours, its highly likely that you will look and feel as though you have gone ten rounds in a ring with Mike Tyson. It will also take up to six months before your true profile will be seen.
Besides all the money, time and pain, it isn’t always certain that the results will be exactly what you want.
So why is it that so many people are content to spend so much in the quest for ‘perfection’?
Society places such a huge emphasis on an unattainable idea of perfection.
The size zero, botoxed, nipped and tucked celebrities that we see in the press, on our TVs, on our billboards, everywhere aren’t as perfect as they are made out to be.
They have gone under the knife and they are an outrageous size of skinny.
They aren’t perfect – they have been constructed. Put together like cloned machines.
Furthermore, size zero simply connotes ‘nothing’ to me and to be honest I’d much rather be ‘something’.
I can learn to live with my imperfections because ultimately, they are who I am.
They are signs that I am an individual and if we’re going to be deep, they are signs that I am a perfect version of me.
I Watched A Film.
On Saturday I lost the will to read.
After struggling through the finer details of media law and trawling the papers for inspiration I was reasonably tired so I had the bright idea to watch some mindless tat on DVD.
Having absolutely no idea what it was about, I chose Madame Bovary – something which I’d got ‘free’ with a weekend newspaper.
It is not mindless tat. It is a French film with English subtitles – something which needs a considerable amount of attention.
It is actually a brilliant film.
I quite enjoy foreign films because they make such a refreshing change from the so often mundane Hollywood Blockbuster.
The only problem is, that at 5’ 4, I’m usually unfortunate enough to end up sitting behind someone in the cinema who is ridiculously tall and whose head blocks out the most important parts of the subtitles.
It is usually a large, bald man.
Luckily, on viewing Madame Bovary I was in the comfort of my own room, or ‘palace’ as I sometimes like to call it.
The film is based on a classic novel by Gustave Flaubert. I’m not going to pretend that I have read it, because I haven’t but I’m giving serious consideration to reading it now.
The story follows Emma Bovary and her increasing descent into chaos and despair.
She is trapped by her marriage and therefore by society, eventually allowing her romantic fantasies to get the better of her and infringe upon her daily life.
This inevitably results in tragic consequences as she begins an affair.
Both the film and the story-line remind me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles (Hardy’s novel and Polanski’s film).
There is something utterly disturbing yet intriguing in the universality of Emma’s day-dreaming and Tess’s unfair treatment.
Madame Bovary is a spectacularly powerful film which brought a tear to my eye. Perhaps I’m too sensitive, but for me this is the mark of a great story.
After struggling through the finer details of media law and trawling the papers for inspiration I was reasonably tired so I had the bright idea to watch some mindless tat on DVD.
Having absolutely no idea what it was about, I chose Madame Bovary – something which I’d got ‘free’ with a weekend newspaper.
It is not mindless tat. It is a French film with English subtitles – something which needs a considerable amount of attention.
It is actually a brilliant film.
I quite enjoy foreign films because they make such a refreshing change from the so often mundane Hollywood Blockbuster.
The only problem is, that at 5’ 4, I’m usually unfortunate enough to end up sitting behind someone in the cinema who is ridiculously tall and whose head blocks out the most important parts of the subtitles.
It is usually a large, bald man.
Luckily, on viewing Madame Bovary I was in the comfort of my own room, or ‘palace’ as I sometimes like to call it.
The film is based on a classic novel by Gustave Flaubert. I’m not going to pretend that I have read it, because I haven’t but I’m giving serious consideration to reading it now.
The story follows Emma Bovary and her increasing descent into chaos and despair.
She is trapped by her marriage and therefore by society, eventually allowing her romantic fantasies to get the better of her and infringe upon her daily life.
This inevitably results in tragic consequences as she begins an affair.
Both the film and the story-line remind me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles (Hardy’s novel and Polanski’s film).
There is something utterly disturbing yet intriguing in the universality of Emma’s day-dreaming and Tess’s unfair treatment.
Madame Bovary is a spectacularly powerful film which brought a tear to my eye. Perhaps I’m too sensitive, but for me this is the mark of a great story.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
On Politics.
American Politics scares me.
The USA is the most powerful nation in the world, and consequently whoever becomes President is the most powerful man in the world.
As most people agree from George Bush’s example, this is both a scary and dangerous prospect.
The Republicans as a group seem to me rather scary, and possibly dangerous.
Many of their overtly fundamental policies and beliefs are a hindrance to life as we know it.
This diatribe springs from an article I read in today’s Observer: ‘Disillusioned America set to turn its back on Bush’.
‘Hooray!’ I thought upon reading the headline. ‘This is just what the intergalactic planetary system needs!’
Even so, the Republicans don’t seem to be changing in the face of this threat, despite the Democrats cheering ‘We need change’.
What worries me most is that a lot of people in the States are staunchly Republican.
The Observer details Senator Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania; someone who advocates teaching intelligent design in schools, speaks out against homosexuality and believes that birth control should be outlawed. (!)
True, people are entitled to their own beliefs. However, I worry that beliefs such as these will see some sort of regression to the dark ages.
If evolution and Darwinism is not to be taught in schools, then perhaps Copernicus will be the next one to get the chop?
In other news, South Korea is to retract its law which bans miniskirts and hotpants.
The USA is the most powerful nation in the world, and consequently whoever becomes President is the most powerful man in the world.
As most people agree from George Bush’s example, this is both a scary and dangerous prospect.
The Republicans as a group seem to me rather scary, and possibly dangerous.
Many of their overtly fundamental policies and beliefs are a hindrance to life as we know it.
This diatribe springs from an article I read in today’s Observer: ‘Disillusioned America set to turn its back on Bush’.
‘Hooray!’ I thought upon reading the headline. ‘This is just what the intergalactic planetary system needs!’
Even so, the Republicans don’t seem to be changing in the face of this threat, despite the Democrats cheering ‘We need change’.
What worries me most is that a lot of people in the States are staunchly Republican.
The Observer details Senator Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania; someone who advocates teaching intelligent design in schools, speaks out against homosexuality and believes that birth control should be outlawed. (!)
True, people are entitled to their own beliefs. However, I worry that beliefs such as these will see some sort of regression to the dark ages.
If evolution and Darwinism is not to be taught in schools, then perhaps Copernicus will be the next one to get the chop?
In other news, South Korea is to retract its law which bans miniskirts and hotpants.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Lost.
I’ve tried to be really productive today.
I read the required chapters in McNae’s Essential Law for Journalists, and even managed to do some of that dreaded shorthand practice I keep putting off.
Then I went to Sainsbury’s to buy a newspaper – and nothing else because I spend too much money on rubbish these days.
Even for all my accomplishments today – I went for a run this morning – I don’t actually feel that I’ve achieved anything.
I only semi-digested media law and fudged my way through shorthand. The Independent didn’t inspire me to write any great diatribe.
And now, I’m feeling a little too tired to do dome reading ‘for fun’.
I’m only twenty or so pages into Joyce’s ‘The Dubliners’ and it really bothers me that every time I catch the cover gleaming at me from my bedside table, I feel an enormous amount of disdain.
I’m actually losing the will to read.
This has never happened to me before and now I don’t know what to do with myself.
I read the required chapters in McNae’s Essential Law for Journalists, and even managed to do some of that dreaded shorthand practice I keep putting off.
Then I went to Sainsbury’s to buy a newspaper – and nothing else because I spend too much money on rubbish these days.
Even for all my accomplishments today – I went for a run this morning – I don’t actually feel that I’ve achieved anything.
I only semi-digested media law and fudged my way through shorthand. The Independent didn’t inspire me to write any great diatribe.
And now, I’m feeling a little too tired to do dome reading ‘for fun’.
I’m only twenty or so pages into Joyce’s ‘The Dubliners’ and it really bothers me that every time I catch the cover gleaming at me from my bedside table, I feel an enormous amount of disdain.
I’m actually losing the will to read.
This has never happened to me before and now I don’t know what to do with myself.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Twenty Works of Art.
Today’s G2 includes a feature on twenty works of art to see before you die.
If this is strict advice, then it’s not very articulate – mainly because the twenty works of art are printed in the paper.
So technically, I have seen them and I’m still alive.
Luckily, the Guardian asks its readers to choose their own definitive lists of must-see masterpieces.
I say ‘luckily’ because I really do not agree with Jonathan Jones’s choice.
I’m by no means an art critic, but I know what I like and in respect of this, here is my list in no particular order;
1. ‘A Student’ Amadeo Modigliani
2. ‘My Parents’ David Hockney – currently on show at the National Portrait Gallery.
3. ‘John Donne, The Melancholy Lover’ artist unknown. It’s kept in the National Portrait Gallery.
4. ‘Rue Mouffetard Paris, 1954’ Henri Cartier-Bresson.
5. ‘The Virgin Mother’ Damien Hirst – I saw this over the summer at the Royal Academy and it is breath-taking.
6. ‘Christ of Saint John of the Cross’ Salavador Dali
7. ‘The Adoration of the Magi’ Leonardo Da Vinci – ok, so I agree with Jones on this one.
8. ‘Guernica’ Pablo Picasso – oops! I agree with Jones again!
9. ‘Marilyn’ Andy Warhol.
10. ‘Girl with a Pearl Earring’ Johannes Vermeer.
11. ‘Triptych of the Virgin Child with Saints’ Cologne School.
12. ‘Isabella and the Pot of Basil’ William Holman Hunt.
13. ‘The Kiss’ Auguste Rodin – this is on show at the Royal Academy until January 2007.
14. ‘Drowning Girl’ Roy Lichtenstein.
15. ‘The Kiss’ Gustav Klimt.
16. ‘L’Oeuil Rouge’ Joan Miro.
17. ‘Moulin Rouge – La Goulue’ Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
18. ‘The Great Wave’ Hokusai – this is an absolute, absolute favourite!
19. ‘Birth of Venus’ Sandro Botticelli.
20. ‘David’ – Michelangelo. Just because.
I’m very sorry that I haven’t included any pictures – I promise you that they are all spectacular and it’s a good chance to discover them!
This is all.
If this is strict advice, then it’s not very articulate – mainly because the twenty works of art are printed in the paper.
So technically, I have seen them and I’m still alive.
Luckily, the Guardian asks its readers to choose their own definitive lists of must-see masterpieces.
I say ‘luckily’ because I really do not agree with Jonathan Jones’s choice.
I’m by no means an art critic, but I know what I like and in respect of this, here is my list in no particular order;
1. ‘A Student’ Amadeo Modigliani
2. ‘My Parents’ David Hockney – currently on show at the National Portrait Gallery.
3. ‘John Donne, The Melancholy Lover’ artist unknown. It’s kept in the National Portrait Gallery.
4. ‘Rue Mouffetard Paris, 1954’ Henri Cartier-Bresson.
5. ‘The Virgin Mother’ Damien Hirst – I saw this over the summer at the Royal Academy and it is breath-taking.
6. ‘Christ of Saint John of the Cross’ Salavador Dali
7. ‘The Adoration of the Magi’ Leonardo Da Vinci – ok, so I agree with Jones on this one.
8. ‘Guernica’ Pablo Picasso – oops! I agree with Jones again!
9. ‘Marilyn’ Andy Warhol.
10. ‘Girl with a Pearl Earring’ Johannes Vermeer.
11. ‘Triptych of the Virgin Child with Saints’ Cologne School.
12. ‘Isabella and the Pot of Basil’ William Holman Hunt.
13. ‘The Kiss’ Auguste Rodin – this is on show at the Royal Academy until January 2007.
14. ‘Drowning Girl’ Roy Lichtenstein.
15. ‘The Kiss’ Gustav Klimt.
16. ‘L’Oeuil Rouge’ Joan Miro.
17. ‘Moulin Rouge – La Goulue’ Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
18. ‘The Great Wave’ Hokusai – this is an absolute, absolute favourite!
19. ‘Birth of Venus’ Sandro Botticelli.
20. ‘David’ – Michelangelo. Just because.
I’m very sorry that I haven’t included any pictures – I promise you that they are all spectacular and it’s a good chance to discover them!
This is all.
Oh My, Private Eye!
Having never ever read Private Eye, Chris Horrie instantly placed it into my hands and told me to blog it.
So this is precisely what I’m doing, although I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing.
Apparently Ian Hislop has been editing the paper for 20 years, something which the central section is dedicated to.
Hislop has chosen his ‘favourite’ covers of the last twenty years to celebrate his editorial anniversary.
The front page of Private Eye is certainly distinctive and famous for its tongue-and-cheek picture of the rich and famous with comical cartoon-esque speech bubbles superimposed.
This weeks cover sees a story board of ‘Macca’ and ‘Mucca’ as the tabloids like to call them – they are more commonly know as Sir Paul McCartney and Heather Mills.
The speech bubbles follow:
Paul: Do you promise to make me look an idiot and take most of my fortune?
Heather: I do.
To be perfectly honest, I’m fed up with hearing about what is possibly the messiest divorce in history – it’s just so full of muck-raking, but a good example here of the kinds of covers Private Eye produces.
Quite rightly however, the paper describes the seemingly never-ending divorce proceedings of the couple as a ‘saga’.
What did interest me however, is that most lawyers actually advise against mud-slinging in divorce cases as it doesn’t have an effect upon the outcome of custody or the division of wealth.
Why, oh why then, can I never escape the image of these two in the news with a fresh barrage of mud having been slung?!
Moving on, some other articles that caught my eye…
The Identity Card Scheme.
Private Eye tells me that the Identity and Passport Service is actually going to recruit interviewers to find out if people really are who they say they are before issuing ID cards.
Is this not the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard?!
I’d genuinely like to know how interviewing people will ascertain something which has been a fact since birth!
What if my personality in interview circumstances doesn’t match my astrological chart and passport photo?
Furthermore, who is going to interview the interviewers to find out if they are who they say they are, and so on…
The Street of Shame.
Some quotes from the Daily Mail caught my attention and gave me a little bit of a chuckle:
10/10/06 – “Let them eat white bread – it really IS healthy.”
20/10/06 – “Eating lots of white bread ‘can raise the risk of cancer’.”
Oh dear.
Political Satire at its Best.
A play on G. Dubya Bush and his many ‘isms’ – “A Message From The Rev. Dubya of The Church of The Latter-Day Morons.”
Some closing thoughts:
I’m not sure whether I’ll be a regular or loyal reader of Private Eye, but it definitely added a little cheer to my evening after a heavy day of presentations.
If you fancy giving it a read, check out the website: www.private-eye.co.uk
And Finally…
The NUJ has warned journalism students “to have their eyes wide open to the fact that graduate trainee contracts from Richard Desmond may not be worth the paper they are written on.”
So this is precisely what I’m doing, although I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing.
Apparently Ian Hislop has been editing the paper for 20 years, something which the central section is dedicated to.
Hislop has chosen his ‘favourite’ covers of the last twenty years to celebrate his editorial anniversary.
The front page of Private Eye is certainly distinctive and famous for its tongue-and-cheek picture of the rich and famous with comical cartoon-esque speech bubbles superimposed.
This weeks cover sees a story board of ‘Macca’ and ‘Mucca’ as the tabloids like to call them – they are more commonly know as Sir Paul McCartney and Heather Mills.
The speech bubbles follow:
Paul: Do you promise to make me look an idiot and take most of my fortune?
Heather: I do.
To be perfectly honest, I’m fed up with hearing about what is possibly the messiest divorce in history – it’s just so full of muck-raking, but a good example here of the kinds of covers Private Eye produces.
Quite rightly however, the paper describes the seemingly never-ending divorce proceedings of the couple as a ‘saga’.
What did interest me however, is that most lawyers actually advise against mud-slinging in divorce cases as it doesn’t have an effect upon the outcome of custody or the division of wealth.
Why, oh why then, can I never escape the image of these two in the news with a fresh barrage of mud having been slung?!
Moving on, some other articles that caught my eye…
The Identity Card Scheme.
Private Eye tells me that the Identity and Passport Service is actually going to recruit interviewers to find out if people really are who they say they are before issuing ID cards.
Is this not the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard?!
I’d genuinely like to know how interviewing people will ascertain something which has been a fact since birth!
What if my personality in interview circumstances doesn’t match my astrological chart and passport photo?
Furthermore, who is going to interview the interviewers to find out if they are who they say they are, and so on…
The Street of Shame.
Some quotes from the Daily Mail caught my attention and gave me a little bit of a chuckle:
10/10/06 – “Let them eat white bread – it really IS healthy.”
20/10/06 – “Eating lots of white bread ‘can raise the risk of cancer’.”
Oh dear.
Political Satire at its Best.
A play on G. Dubya Bush and his many ‘isms’ – “A Message From The Rev. Dubya of The Church of The Latter-Day Morons.”
Some closing thoughts:
I’m not sure whether I’ll be a regular or loyal reader of Private Eye, but it definitely added a little cheer to my evening after a heavy day of presentations.
If you fancy giving it a read, check out the website: www.private-eye.co.uk
And Finally…
The NUJ has warned journalism students “to have their eyes wide open to the fact that graduate trainee contracts from Richard Desmond may not be worth the paper they are written on.”
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families.
In yesterday’s Independent Magazine, I read an article about the continuing crisis in Darfur. It got me thinking.
Why is it that we continually appease the often evil nature of humanity? Not just in the present day, but throughout history.
In 1939 the allies went to war with Hitler’s Germany after a consistent policy of appeasement by Chamberlain.
War finally begun, not because of the ‘Jewish question’ and ‘final solution’, but because the Nazis invaded Poland.
The allies knew something of the horrors facing Jews in German occupied territory before the war.
Even so, in 1940 around 50,000 ‘enemy aliens’ were rounded up in the UK because of their German origins. Of these, many were actually Jewish refugees who were very anti-Hitler.
They were still sent away to camps.
After the war, the extent of the atrocities which took place in the concentration camps and extermination camps came more fully to light.
The world looks back in horror at the brutal nature of Hitler’s regime – the millions upon millions of men, women and children who suffered. The millions who died a horrifying death.
The Holocaust is often held as a reference point to any later atrocities as the first modern genocide and an extreme case of racial cleansing.
The 1948 Genocide Convention recognised that genocide is a crime under international law and is to be condemned by the civilized world, who undertake to prevent and to punish such acts from taking place.
It defines genocide as ‘acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group’.
It seems to me that this convention is simply something which hopes to compensate for the lives destroyed during the Holocaust.
Has it really prevented any other horrific act of mankind since?
Stalin’s purges?
Pol Pot’s regime?
The horror of Bosnia-Herzegovina?
The atrocity of the Rwandan people in the latter part of the twentieth century and 1994 especially, is something which often creeps into my mind when confronted with issues such as this.
The seeds of genocide in Rwanda started as early as 1959 and came to a head in 1994 when between 500,000 and 800,000 Tutsi were murdered at the hands of Hutus in just over four months.
The dead of Rwanda accumulated at nearly three times the rate of Jewish dead during the Holocaust, yet the US refused to recognise the events as a genocide.
As Philip Gourevitch records in his book “We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families”, ‘neighbours hacked neighbours to death in their homes, and colleagues hacked colleagues to death in their workplaces. Doctors killed their patients, and schoolteachers killed their pupils.’
In Rwanda, the dismembered skeletons of Hutu Power’s victims remain in the killing fields as a permanent memorial to what happened.
One of the main Internally Displaced Persons camps in Darfur is called “Rwanda”.
This isn’t because of the Rwandan genocide, but even so, the image of this atrocity is immediately called to mind.
According to The Independent, over 2 million people from the Darfur region are ‘living’ in displacement camps on desert land in Sudan. These people are the luckier ones.
These are the people who survived the Sudanese government’s policy which burnt down their homes.
But they live in constant fear of the Janjaweed, who carry out frequent killing sprees.
Since 2003 more than 85,000 people have been killed and 200,000 have died from war-related illnesses.
According to The Independent, the conflict has become all the more complicated than the straightforward story of genocide carried out by Arabs against blacks.
The peace-keeping in Darfur at present is controlled by the African Union. But their powers of security are limited.
They have all but given up trying to prevent more deaths and now just record incidents.
The UN on the other hand can only enter the region if the government gives its approval. This is not likely to happen.
If on the off chance it does happen, no British or American soldiers will be sent.
Outside the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington are the slogans ‘Remember’ and ‘Never Again’.
But it has happened again.
Of his experiences in a concentration camp during the Holocaust, Primo Levi wrote that ‘it happened, therefore it can happen again … it can happen, and it can happen everywhere.’
We seem to find it so easy to forget these heinous events.
The horror over the famine in Niger lasted for about two weeks.
We aren’t in the same position as these people. We don’t live on a barren wasteland in constant fear that this day could be our last.
We return to our homes and families at the end of a stressful day and moan about how hard life is.
Moan about the weather. Moan about tax. So trivial.
Christmas is fast approaching. The lights have gone up in almost every town centre in the country and the shops are full of the joys of the season.
The season of giving.
The season of hope.
How can we give the people of Darfur a little hope for a future?
Why is it that we continually appease the often evil nature of humanity? Not just in the present day, but throughout history.
In 1939 the allies went to war with Hitler’s Germany after a consistent policy of appeasement by Chamberlain.
War finally begun, not because of the ‘Jewish question’ and ‘final solution’, but because the Nazis invaded Poland.
The allies knew something of the horrors facing Jews in German occupied territory before the war.
Even so, in 1940 around 50,000 ‘enemy aliens’ were rounded up in the UK because of their German origins. Of these, many were actually Jewish refugees who were very anti-Hitler.
They were still sent away to camps.
After the war, the extent of the atrocities which took place in the concentration camps and extermination camps came more fully to light.
The world looks back in horror at the brutal nature of Hitler’s regime – the millions upon millions of men, women and children who suffered. The millions who died a horrifying death.
The Holocaust is often held as a reference point to any later atrocities as the first modern genocide and an extreme case of racial cleansing.
The 1948 Genocide Convention recognised that genocide is a crime under international law and is to be condemned by the civilized world, who undertake to prevent and to punish such acts from taking place.
It defines genocide as ‘acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group’.
It seems to me that this convention is simply something which hopes to compensate for the lives destroyed during the Holocaust.
Has it really prevented any other horrific act of mankind since?
Stalin’s purges?
Pol Pot’s regime?
The horror of Bosnia-Herzegovina?
The atrocity of the Rwandan people in the latter part of the twentieth century and 1994 especially, is something which often creeps into my mind when confronted with issues such as this.
The seeds of genocide in Rwanda started as early as 1959 and came to a head in 1994 when between 500,000 and 800,000 Tutsi were murdered at the hands of Hutus in just over four months.
The dead of Rwanda accumulated at nearly three times the rate of Jewish dead during the Holocaust, yet the US refused to recognise the events as a genocide.
As Philip Gourevitch records in his book “We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families”, ‘neighbours hacked neighbours to death in their homes, and colleagues hacked colleagues to death in their workplaces. Doctors killed their patients, and schoolteachers killed their pupils.’
In Rwanda, the dismembered skeletons of Hutu Power’s victims remain in the killing fields as a permanent memorial to what happened.
One of the main Internally Displaced Persons camps in Darfur is called “Rwanda”.
This isn’t because of the Rwandan genocide, but even so, the image of this atrocity is immediately called to mind.
According to The Independent, over 2 million people from the Darfur region are ‘living’ in displacement camps on desert land in Sudan. These people are the luckier ones.
These are the people who survived the Sudanese government’s policy which burnt down their homes.
But they live in constant fear of the Janjaweed, who carry out frequent killing sprees.
Since 2003 more than 85,000 people have been killed and 200,000 have died from war-related illnesses.
According to The Independent, the conflict has become all the more complicated than the straightforward story of genocide carried out by Arabs against blacks.
The peace-keeping in Darfur at present is controlled by the African Union. But their powers of security are limited.
They have all but given up trying to prevent more deaths and now just record incidents.
The UN on the other hand can only enter the region if the government gives its approval. This is not likely to happen.
If on the off chance it does happen, no British or American soldiers will be sent.
Outside the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington are the slogans ‘Remember’ and ‘Never Again’.
But it has happened again.
Of his experiences in a concentration camp during the Holocaust, Primo Levi wrote that ‘it happened, therefore it can happen again … it can happen, and it can happen everywhere.’
We seem to find it so easy to forget these heinous events.
The horror over the famine in Niger lasted for about two weeks.
We aren’t in the same position as these people. We don’t live on a barren wasteland in constant fear that this day could be our last.
We return to our homes and families at the end of a stressful day and moan about how hard life is.
Moan about the weather. Moan about tax. So trivial.
Christmas is fast approaching. The lights have gone up in almost every town centre in the country and the shops are full of the joys of the season.
The season of giving.
The season of hope.
How can we give the people of Darfur a little hope for a future?
Friday, October 27, 2006
Photography
I found Colin Jacobson’s lecture on photojournalism and citizen journalism really interesting today – perhaps the most thought-provoking lecture so far.
I’ve always had an interest in photography and love taking photos.
These photos are usually of drunken nights out or family parties where I’ve been lumbered with the ‘chore’ of documenting said occasions.
It doesn’t bother me though.
I cherish these images that I have collected of my friends and family – people who mean so much to me.
I’m really keen to develop a greater flair for photography. (I’m geekishly interested in the now rather old-fashioned way of developing photos in a dark room)
I love the originality and unique qualities that many photographs have and hope that someday I can bring this to some of the pictures I take.
Last summer I saw an exhibition of my favourite photographer’s work in Edinburgh.
Henri Cartier-Bresson.
I’m always fascinated by the way he captures people in his lens. How he captures events.
(If you don’t know Cartier-Bresson’s work, find Rue Mouffetard, Paris 1954 – it hands on my bedroom wall at home!)
Back to Colin’s lecture – it still amazes me that in this day and age, so many of the images we are shown are actually controlled by the powers that be.
For example, the US staging the control of Haiti airport in 1994 for the benefit of the press.
Forceful propaganda is so often attributed to extremists such as Hitler and Stalin.
In reality however, every government controls what the public sees in order to ensure that we take their side.
In recent times, this was most famously undermined by the Abu Ghraib photographs taken by American troops.
The ‘just’ nature of the second Gulf war exploded just as suddenly as the first bombs were dropped on Baghdad.
It seems that we aren’t living in a democracy at all, even though our leaders are forcing this notion onto so-called undemocratic countries.
Are the governments of America, Britain et al any better than the various autocratic regimes around the world?
Society is Orwellian. We are constantly being watched. Constantly being fed spin. Constantly being undermined in our view of what ‘truth’ is.
“While photographs may not lie, liars may photograph. It becomes necessary then to see to it that the camera we depend on contracts no bad habits.” – Lewis Hine.
I’ve always had an interest in photography and love taking photos.
These photos are usually of drunken nights out or family parties where I’ve been lumbered with the ‘chore’ of documenting said occasions.
It doesn’t bother me though.
I cherish these images that I have collected of my friends and family – people who mean so much to me.
I’m really keen to develop a greater flair for photography. (I’m geekishly interested in the now rather old-fashioned way of developing photos in a dark room)
I love the originality and unique qualities that many photographs have and hope that someday I can bring this to some of the pictures I take.
Last summer I saw an exhibition of my favourite photographer’s work in Edinburgh.
Henri Cartier-Bresson.
I’m always fascinated by the way he captures people in his lens. How he captures events.
(If you don’t know Cartier-Bresson’s work, find Rue Mouffetard, Paris 1954 – it hands on my bedroom wall at home!)
Back to Colin’s lecture – it still amazes me that in this day and age, so many of the images we are shown are actually controlled by the powers that be.
For example, the US staging the control of Haiti airport in 1994 for the benefit of the press.
Forceful propaganda is so often attributed to extremists such as Hitler and Stalin.
In reality however, every government controls what the public sees in order to ensure that we take their side.
In recent times, this was most famously undermined by the Abu Ghraib photographs taken by American troops.
The ‘just’ nature of the second Gulf war exploded just as suddenly as the first bombs were dropped on Baghdad.
It seems that we aren’t living in a democracy at all, even though our leaders are forcing this notion onto so-called undemocratic countries.
Are the governments of America, Britain et al any better than the various autocratic regimes around the world?
Society is Orwellian. We are constantly being watched. Constantly being fed spin. Constantly being undermined in our view of what ‘truth’ is.
“While photographs may not lie, liars may photograph. It becomes necessary then to see to it that the camera we depend on contracts no bad habits.” – Lewis Hine.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Culture Vulture.
For the past few days the marvelous lady that is Mrs. H. has been in London to visit. Not just to visit the city, but to visit me as well.
Mrs. H. is my mum but is generally known among my friends by the former.
Mrs. H. is also a guru. She knows everything and is full of excellent advice. I wouldn’t mind following her example, although she did tell me off for acting like a 60 year old woman in Ikea!
Her mere presence in London paved the way for some rather cultural activities…
Guys and Dolls.
Following a delicious meal at Tuttons in Covent Garden – the crab cakes were amazing – we graced the West End with our presence.
I’m a huge fan of musicals and ‘Guys and Dolls’ is one of my favourites, along with ‘West Side Story’ and ‘Chicago’, so I was really excited about going to see the show.
On arriving at the theatre however, my excitement soon turned to disappointment.
The dishy Nigel Harman no longer appears in the show, and Patrick Swayze was apparently ‘indisposed’ for the night’s performance.
Personally I think he let us down in order to attend the opening of ‘Dirty Dancing’ on the same night. The fiend.
His understudy for the part of Nathan Detroit wasn’t too bad, although I couldn’t help but notice the slightly annoying lisp he had when he sung.
Norman Bowman, who played Sky Masterson, was no match for Brando. Nor how I imagined Nigel Harman to be in the role.
Also, the understudy playing Sarah Brown wasn’t a particularly great actress in spite of her impressive singing.
I think that a few of the numbers would have benefited from more cast involvement, such as the eponymous song of the show which was a little flat with only two voices to carry it.
Despite this, ‘Sit Down You’re Rocking The Boat’ was stupendous – by far the highlight of the entire show!
Samantha Janus was also brilliant as Miss Adelaide, which really surprised me.
Even for the parts which let me down, ‘Guys and Dolls’ was a highly entertaining show and worth going to see.
The Victoria and Albert Museum.
I love that fashion constantly repeats itself.
This autumn/winter I’ve fallen head over heels in love with shift dresses and visiting the 60s fashion exhibition at the V & A wasn’t so much like stepping into a time-warp as it was stepping into Topshop or H & M.
I must find where Biba had reopened – for posterity of course – and I also must find more vintage clothing shops!
We also managed to take a look at the medieval religious ‘art’ while at the V & A.
These pieces are so amazingly beautiful and intricate – they take my breath away just thinking about them.
But I think it’s a shame that many of the objects in the museum seem to have been removed from various churches around the world – they should remain in their ‘homes’.
Also, the Asian pieces on display, as glorious as they are, should be returned to their particular countries.
The National Portrait Gallery.
To be honest, I’m not a massive fan of David Hockney but Mrs. H. loves him and I think I upset her a little because I couldn’t be bothered to wait in the queue at the V & A to see the Da Vinci exhibition.
To be fair though, the queue was probably about 50 miles long!
Despite my general dislike of Hockney however, the exhibition was really good.
His use of colour in certain paintings and simpler sketches is remarkable.
In particular drawings he uses red and blue ink which creates a really unusual but intriguing effect.
Definitely worth a look.
After exhausting Hockney, I quickly dragged my mum to the upstairs of the gallery before we left.
I was desperate to see the portrait of John Donne, the melancholy lover, as he is my favourite poet.
I’d really like to see the full Tudor portraits exhibition at some point, but Mrs. H. had a train to catch.
Mrs. H. is my mum but is generally known among my friends by the former.
Mrs. H. is also a guru. She knows everything and is full of excellent advice. I wouldn’t mind following her example, although she did tell me off for acting like a 60 year old woman in Ikea!
Her mere presence in London paved the way for some rather cultural activities…
Guys and Dolls.
Following a delicious meal at Tuttons in Covent Garden – the crab cakes were amazing – we graced the West End with our presence.
I’m a huge fan of musicals and ‘Guys and Dolls’ is one of my favourites, along with ‘West Side Story’ and ‘Chicago’, so I was really excited about going to see the show.
On arriving at the theatre however, my excitement soon turned to disappointment.
The dishy Nigel Harman no longer appears in the show, and Patrick Swayze was apparently ‘indisposed’ for the night’s performance.
Personally I think he let us down in order to attend the opening of ‘Dirty Dancing’ on the same night. The fiend.
His understudy for the part of Nathan Detroit wasn’t too bad, although I couldn’t help but notice the slightly annoying lisp he had when he sung.
Norman Bowman, who played Sky Masterson, was no match for Brando. Nor how I imagined Nigel Harman to be in the role.
Also, the understudy playing Sarah Brown wasn’t a particularly great actress in spite of her impressive singing.
I think that a few of the numbers would have benefited from more cast involvement, such as the eponymous song of the show which was a little flat with only two voices to carry it.
Despite this, ‘Sit Down You’re Rocking The Boat’ was stupendous – by far the highlight of the entire show!
Samantha Janus was also brilliant as Miss Adelaide, which really surprised me.
Even for the parts which let me down, ‘Guys and Dolls’ was a highly entertaining show and worth going to see.
The Victoria and Albert Museum.
I love that fashion constantly repeats itself.
This autumn/winter I’ve fallen head over heels in love with shift dresses and visiting the 60s fashion exhibition at the V & A wasn’t so much like stepping into a time-warp as it was stepping into Topshop or H & M.
I must find where Biba had reopened – for posterity of course – and I also must find more vintage clothing shops!
We also managed to take a look at the medieval religious ‘art’ while at the V & A.
These pieces are so amazingly beautiful and intricate – they take my breath away just thinking about them.
But I think it’s a shame that many of the objects in the museum seem to have been removed from various churches around the world – they should remain in their ‘homes’.
Also, the Asian pieces on display, as glorious as they are, should be returned to their particular countries.
The National Portrait Gallery.
To be honest, I’m not a massive fan of David Hockney but Mrs. H. loves him and I think I upset her a little because I couldn’t be bothered to wait in the queue at the V & A to see the Da Vinci exhibition.
To be fair though, the queue was probably about 50 miles long!
Despite my general dislike of Hockney however, the exhibition was really good.
His use of colour in certain paintings and simpler sketches is remarkable.
In particular drawings he uses red and blue ink which creates a really unusual but intriguing effect.
Definitely worth a look.
After exhausting Hockney, I quickly dragged my mum to the upstairs of the gallery before we left.
I was desperate to see the portrait of John Donne, the melancholy lover, as he is my favourite poet.
I’d really like to see the full Tudor portraits exhibition at some point, but Mrs. H. had a train to catch.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Energy Saving Week
This morning I woke up at some ungodly hour. Apparently its called 5 am.
For the next hour or so I willed myself to go back to sleep. Perhaps I willed a bit too hard because it wasn’t happening. I turned on the light and squinted through the painful brightness to turn the radio on.
Listening to Radio 4, like a good girl, I had an epiphany – I’ll go for a run. What a brilliant idea!
So, I got dressed into my sportiest gear, scraped my hair back, filled my bottle of water and was on my way. I even took care to turn my radio off at the mains rather than leave it on standby after hearing a bulletin about energy waste and efficiency.
When I got outside, I realized that I’m actually stark raving mad – “What the hell am I doing?! It’s still dark!”
It was tough, but I had to go through with it after clambering down three flights of stairs in my still dreamlike state.
After a brief warm-up, I began my only exercise for what will probably be the next month. Luckily, the pigeons were still asleep and therefore couldn’t scorn at my feeble effort.
For once, I wasn’t too bad at this exercise lark. Perhaps because no-one could see me looking daft. I’m ALWAYS better at things when nobody’s watching.
However, for all the so-called ‘benefits’ of cardio-vascular exercise, I’m not feeling all that special. My legs are a little shaky and feel as though they could give way at any second.
Moral of the story – stay in bed next time!
For the next hour or so I willed myself to go back to sleep. Perhaps I willed a bit too hard because it wasn’t happening. I turned on the light and squinted through the painful brightness to turn the radio on.
Listening to Radio 4, like a good girl, I had an epiphany – I’ll go for a run. What a brilliant idea!
So, I got dressed into my sportiest gear, scraped my hair back, filled my bottle of water and was on my way. I even took care to turn my radio off at the mains rather than leave it on standby after hearing a bulletin about energy waste and efficiency.
When I got outside, I realized that I’m actually stark raving mad – “What the hell am I doing?! It’s still dark!”
It was tough, but I had to go through with it after clambering down three flights of stairs in my still dreamlike state.
After a brief warm-up, I began my only exercise for what will probably be the next month. Luckily, the pigeons were still asleep and therefore couldn’t scorn at my feeble effort.
For once, I wasn’t too bad at this exercise lark. Perhaps because no-one could see me looking daft. I’m ALWAYS better at things when nobody’s watching.
However, for all the so-called ‘benefits’ of cardio-vascular exercise, I’m not feeling all that special. My legs are a little shaky and feel as though they could give way at any second.
Moral of the story – stay in bed next time!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Ikea
Ikea is amazing – a magical wonderland of stuff for the home. Although I strongly advocate individuality and non-conformity, which Ikea is not with its mass produced Swedish style, it is my guilty pleasure; a Primark for the home.
My most recent trip to Ikea was initially met with disappointment. Having traipsed along the first floor admiring the furniture which I can never possibly hope to afford in the near future, I finally found the haven of the ground floor.
As a 22 year old, I feel rather ashamed at how excited I became by the treasure trove that is the kitchen accessories department. I became utterly lost between the shelves of miraculous pans and sparkling oven dishes. As if that wasn’t enough, the gloriously colourful Tupperware made this lady incredibly happy.
I often wonder that part of my brain is actually a 60 year old woman who is a practical homemaker juxtaposed with a 16 year old adolescent who needed a ‘Maccy D’s’ to complete the day trip, and cure the hangover which had clung on all day from the previous nights debaucheries.
I sincerely hope that I’m not alone in such random flights of fancy. Psychologists often refer to various mental and emotional ages – if this is a scientific fact, then perhaps I am both a 60 year old woman AND a 16 year old girl trapped in the body of a 22 year old.
For all three of my ages, I still have fun – one of the most important things in life, I think.
My most recent trip to Ikea was initially met with disappointment. Having traipsed along the first floor admiring the furniture which I can never possibly hope to afford in the near future, I finally found the haven of the ground floor.
As a 22 year old, I feel rather ashamed at how excited I became by the treasure trove that is the kitchen accessories department. I became utterly lost between the shelves of miraculous pans and sparkling oven dishes. As if that wasn’t enough, the gloriously colourful Tupperware made this lady incredibly happy.
I often wonder that part of my brain is actually a 60 year old woman who is a practical homemaker juxtaposed with a 16 year old adolescent who needed a ‘Maccy D’s’ to complete the day trip, and cure the hangover which had clung on all day from the previous nights debaucheries.
I sincerely hope that I’m not alone in such random flights of fancy. Psychologists often refer to various mental and emotional ages – if this is a scientific fact, then perhaps I am both a 60 year old woman AND a 16 year old girl trapped in the body of a 22 year old.
For all three of my ages, I still have fun – one of the most important things in life, I think.
Friday was an incredibly strange day...
One of those days that you look back on and wonder whether it was actually a dream rather than an evening fuelled by copious amounts of vodka and the onset of a nasty cold.
It started as a normal evening – getting ready to go to the pub and a house party whilst singing and dancing to the songs on the radio. No-one can see me dance like an idiot, but they can probably hear me sing – terribly. I’m sure my flat mates are perfectly at ease with this now after more than likely being woken up by my incredibly loud singing in the shower for the past four or five weeks. That’s entertainment!
Slight digression.
Anyway, Sarah and I went to the supermarket, got some vodka and went to a nearby pub to watch a friend sing and play guitar. This public house has an amazing name and fabulous interior décor, including an Austin Powers pinball machine! Tremendous.
We were sitting enjoying our drinks and singing along to Sam’s music when suddenly, a rather weird man appeared from no-where and asked to sit with us. Sarah said yes. Not me.
He was talking about anything and nothing but fortunately I couldn’t hear him and was trying to avoid eye-contact at all costs.
A little while later he asked if he could come with us to the house party, even though Sarah had casually mentioned that she studies martial arts at university. (She doesn’t)
This guy would not get the hint, even after we told him that it was a family party and that my ‘boyfriend’, who happens to be built like a brick shithouse, is coming to pick us up.
I was a little apprehensive to say the least.
After making a b-line for the toilets, we managed to hide at the back of the pub. Scary man was sitting near the door just staring into space while we hid/spied for about 20 minutes until he got up to go to the bar. We seized our chance and ran.
I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast.
Needless to say, I kept looking behind me all the way to the house party in case he had followed us. He didn’t! Phew! I wonder if he even noticed we had disappeared?
So the house party…
It was lots of fun but vague. I remember there being a big black Labrador which licked my leg and a little tiny dog, a huge chalk board and two grown men handcuffed to each other.
I also got a little upset at one point. The man in the take-away said he couldn’t sell me cheesy chips. I don’t think he even knew what I meant – are cheesy chips an exclusively northern thing?! I had to settle for chips and mayonnaise, which didn’t really do anything to help the beast of a hangover I had the next day.
I did manage to suppress it with an exciting trip to Ikea, but more on that later…
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Vegas, the American Dream and a Hell of a lot of Drugs.
"Nobody had learned anything ... all I learned was that the National District Attorneys' Association is about ten years behind the grim truth ... of what they have only just recently learned to call 'the Drug Culture' in this foul year of Our Lord, 1971"
Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a fast-paced hybrid of reportage and fiction in which Thompson, aka Raoul Duke, and his attorney drive to Las Vegas to find the dark side of the American Dream.
Drugged up to the eyeballs on a lethal combination of ether, mescaline and alcohol to name a few, the two enter a manic and surreal world.
Whilst on this ‘trip’ they stumble across the district attorney’s drug conference, adding to the many bizarre events written about in this book.
Thompson himself calls Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas ‘a vile epitaph for the drug culture of the sixties’ and his ‘reluctant salute to that decade’, which amazingly has a certain resonance even today.
This is reinforced in the constant striking imagery and warped romanticism from the very beginning.
Indeed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is so unbelievable in the story it tells that you can’t help but believe as you are drawn into this crazy drugs frenzy and the many extreme situations.
A brilliant read and a must for anyone with even the slightest interest in gonzo journalism.
Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a fast-paced hybrid of reportage and fiction in which Thompson, aka Raoul Duke, and his attorney drive to Las Vegas to find the dark side of the American Dream.
Drugged up to the eyeballs on a lethal combination of ether, mescaline and alcohol to name a few, the two enter a manic and surreal world.
Whilst on this ‘trip’ they stumble across the district attorney’s drug conference, adding to the many bizarre events written about in this book.
Thompson himself calls Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas ‘a vile epitaph for the drug culture of the sixties’ and his ‘reluctant salute to that decade’, which amazingly has a certain resonance even today.
This is reinforced in the constant striking imagery and warped romanticism from the very beginning.
Indeed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is so unbelievable in the story it tells that you can’t help but believe as you are drawn into this crazy drugs frenzy and the many extreme situations.
A brilliant read and a must for anyone with even the slightest interest in gonzo journalism.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Book Review?
I'm supposed to be writing a book review but I have no idea what to do - its been so long since I've written one that I'm not even sure I remember how!
The task is to review one of the course books I've read. Truth be told, I've only actually read 2 1/2 and I didn't really pay that much attention!
Uh oh!
What to do...
The task is to review one of the course books I've read. Truth be told, I've only actually read 2 1/2 and I didn't really pay that much attention!
Uh oh!
What to do...
Friday, October 13, 2006
On Exercise
Running is a ridiculous sport.
Even though I wear a sports bra, my boobs still manage to jingle jangle up and down and all over the place.
This will not be a good look at 40.
The unsightly nature of such physical exercise continues in the actual process of running itself.
I truly am the most unfit person in world. In fact, make that the galaxy.
I'm not too proud to admit that when I run, even pigeons can tell that there's something wrong. They probably think I should run straight to a local weight watcher's club or into the arms of a personal trainer. Failing that, a hospital.
When I run, I turn red. Not a rosy, healthy red but an 'oh my god I think I'm dying' red. This is very often accompanied by a certain amount of hyperventilating and sweating. Very attractive.
Years of alcohol, cigarette and chocolate cake abuse have turned me into an unhealthy mess.
I really should repent - give up all the crap that is so so nice, trading it for a torturou regime of healthy food and exercise. The kind that Gillian McKeith inflicts on a regular basis.
I need to change my ways.
I must change my ways.
But would one more vodka really hurt?
Even though I wear a sports bra, my boobs still manage to jingle jangle up and down and all over the place.
This will not be a good look at 40.
The unsightly nature of such physical exercise continues in the actual process of running itself.
I truly am the most unfit person in world. In fact, make that the galaxy.
I'm not too proud to admit that when I run, even pigeons can tell that there's something wrong. They probably think I should run straight to a local weight watcher's club or into the arms of a personal trainer. Failing that, a hospital.
When I run, I turn red. Not a rosy, healthy red but an 'oh my god I think I'm dying' red. This is very often accompanied by a certain amount of hyperventilating and sweating. Very attractive.
Years of alcohol, cigarette and chocolate cake abuse have turned me into an unhealthy mess.
I really should repent - give up all the crap that is so so nice, trading it for a torturou regime of healthy food and exercise. The kind that Gillian McKeith inflicts on a regular basis.
I need to change my ways.
I must change my ways.
But would one more vodka really hurt?
Blogging culture
I was a little dismayed to learn that Chris Horrie had posted a link to my blog page without even telling me. That was nice of him, but i've decided to sweep it under the carpet and not get wound up about it.
Usually I would be wound up and demand that he take down the link. But, I changed my mind because I can't be arsed with the bother to be honest.
So, if you do happen to read my blog please have the courtesy to do what I do and sweep it under the carpet!
I do post personal things on here from time to time which i'd rather not talk about in the 'real world' - ie. outside the internet.
Usually I would be wound up and demand that he take down the link. But, I changed my mind because I can't be arsed with the bother to be honest.
So, if you do happen to read my blog please have the courtesy to do what I do and sweep it under the carpet!
I do post personal things on here from time to time which i'd rather not talk about in the 'real world' - ie. outside the internet.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Thought For The Day
Have you ever been surrounded by people and felt totally alone?
My gran died almost two years ago and this is how I felt. Breathless.
For some reason I've been thinking about her a lot today. I miss her love and wisdom. I miss her.
I remember visiting her in hospital in the weeks leading up to her death. She didn't look like my gran. She was thin and drawn - had lost so much weight. She seemed almost ashamed that she was ill and didn't want to be seen.
The last time I saw her she was unconscious.
Her eyes were closed but every now and then you could see them roll back in her head as her body jerked uncontrollably. I really hope she wasn't in pain.
I held her hand.
Even at 82, her skin was incredibly soft. Silky.
Later that day, she had died.
I've never felt so alone and so scared.
It felt like my whole world and my whole family had fallen apart, and it sometimes still feels that way.
I can safely say that I will never miss anyone as much as I miss my gran.
She was amazing.
My gran died almost two years ago and this is how I felt. Breathless.
For some reason I've been thinking about her a lot today. I miss her love and wisdom. I miss her.
I remember visiting her in hospital in the weeks leading up to her death. She didn't look like my gran. She was thin and drawn - had lost so much weight. She seemed almost ashamed that she was ill and didn't want to be seen.
The last time I saw her she was unconscious.
Her eyes were closed but every now and then you could see them roll back in her head as her body jerked uncontrollably. I really hope she wasn't in pain.
I held her hand.
Even at 82, her skin was incredibly soft. Silky.
Later that day, she had died.
I've never felt so alone and so scared.
It felt like my whole world and my whole family had fallen apart, and it sometimes still feels that way.
I can safely say that I will never miss anyone as much as I miss my gran.
She was amazing.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Are Newspapers Dying?
The future of journalism, and newspapers in particular, looks shakey. Shakey but interesting.
Word has it, the internet is the future with vlogging, digital tv, podcasts, interfacing and video journalism. But does this mean that newspapers are going to die a slow and excruciating death?
Surely there will always be some sort of market for news on paper? For periodicals and magazines?
I'd like to think that this is the ideal, but I can see our lives being controlled by the internet and it's users. Even now.
I rarely buy newspapers these days. I just read the news online, or in some cases watch it. Is this a bad thing?
I don't think so because its the modern thing.
Why then, are people still being taught specialist periodical writing? Wouldn't it be better to evolve and learn many different skils relevant for the future of media? Be a jack of all trades and a master of none?
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Who the Dickens is David Cameron anyway?
I'm actually mentally and physically fed up of this politics debacle.
What a bunch of no-hopers!
The reason people don't care enough about politics is because politicians don't care enough about policies. They seem to think its more relevant to drag each others names through the dirt to gain kudos.
Well, give them all a Blue Peter badge.
More policies, less snobberies please.
What a bunch of no-hopers!
The reason people don't care enough about politics is because politicians don't care enough about policies. They seem to think its more relevant to drag each others names through the dirt to gain kudos.
Well, give them all a Blue Peter badge.
More policies, less snobberies please.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Its raining in London.
I wonder what the weather is like somewhere else?
Apparently its sunny in Newcastle - according to my mum. What about in the Sudan? Darfur? Niger?
Do the people there even sit and ponder that its more than likely to be raining in London?
Its so easy to sit and stare out of your window at the rain and grey skies as the tube whizzes past on the metropolitan line. Its so easy to forget that there are people in the world who are less fortunate. People who live in war-torn countries. People who haven't just eaten a delicious carrot and coriander soup from Sainsbury's. People who haven't eaten. For days. Weeks.
I'm in London and its raining. I've just eaten some carrot and coriander soup from Sainsbury's.
Apparently its sunny in Newcastle - according to my mum. What about in the Sudan? Darfur? Niger?
Do the people there even sit and ponder that its more than likely to be raining in London?
Its so easy to sit and stare out of your window at the rain and grey skies as the tube whizzes past on the metropolitan line. Its so easy to forget that there are people in the world who are less fortunate. People who live in war-torn countries. People who haven't just eaten a delicious carrot and coriander soup from Sainsbury's. People who haven't eaten. For days. Weeks.
I'm in London and its raining. I've just eaten some carrot and coriander soup from Sainsbury's.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Today I got annoyed...
OH MY GOD!
Today I went to sort out my registration with a doctor in London.
So what do you expect to happen?
You give them some pee, get your blood pressure taken, get weighed and your height measured.
Sometimes you get questions asked about your lifestyle as well, such as the food you eat, if you smoke and the kind of exercise you do.
I did not expect the following...
I told the nurse that I occasionally do some yoga.
She asked me if I knew that I was breaking the first commandment and that God is a jealous God.
Excuse me?!
She continued: "When you do yoga, you are worshiping false idols in every pose you do..."
I was so shocked. I'm absolutely positive that people in the medical profession aren't allowed to thrust any of their personal beliefs on patients!
Am I wrong? No.
Even so, I’ve always thought that it’s rude to impose any kind of beliefs on people. I’m a Catholic but I don’t tell people that the things they do or believe in are wrong. I think that people like that should really consider how offensive they can be and that it is the 21st century. NOT the dark ages.
I told her that I did yoga as a form of exercise and that I was there to have my health checked. If I wanted to be preached at I’ll go to church!
At the end of the consultation, she told me I have to have a blood test. I think she’s punishing me for worshiping Satan...
Today I went to sort out my registration with a doctor in London.
So what do you expect to happen?
You give them some pee, get your blood pressure taken, get weighed and your height measured.
Sometimes you get questions asked about your lifestyle as well, such as the food you eat, if you smoke and the kind of exercise you do.
I did not expect the following...
I told the nurse that I occasionally do some yoga.
She asked me if I knew that I was breaking the first commandment and that God is a jealous God.
Excuse me?!
She continued: "When you do yoga, you are worshiping false idols in every pose you do..."
I was so shocked. I'm absolutely positive that people in the medical profession aren't allowed to thrust any of their personal beliefs on patients!
Am I wrong? No.
Even so, I’ve always thought that it’s rude to impose any kind of beliefs on people. I’m a Catholic but I don’t tell people that the things they do or believe in are wrong. I think that people like that should really consider how offensive they can be and that it is the 21st century. NOT the dark ages.
I told her that I did yoga as a form of exercise and that I was there to have my health checked. If I wanted to be preached at I’ll go to church!
At the end of the consultation, she told me I have to have a blood test. I think she’s punishing me for worshiping Satan...
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I hate it when...
...people think that what they do has no effect on you.
It doesn't mean that they're selfish in any way, they're just completely absorbed in what they do or feel that they don't realise the effect it can have on others.
Someone with an alcohol addiction often finds the solution to life's problems at the bottom of a bottle. They drink and drink and drink without seeing whats happening around them. Whats happening outside their addiction.
They think they are protecting their loved ones by trying to hide it without realising that its so easy to smell the last bottle of whiskey on their breath, along with the bloodshot eyes and the occasional slurring of sentences. Not even an excessive spray of deodorant or aftershave can hide whats been obvious for years.
The hardest thing is watching someone do that to themselves and not being able to do a thing to help.
They'll say that they are trying, but its so impossible to ignore or pretend that it isn't happening because the next chance they get they've got that precious treasure, newly bought and stuffed in the inside of their coat.
Its hard not having the courage to tell them that its devastating to see them like that. To tell them that you just want them to be happy again. To be the way they are when they're not drunk. The way they were before it all started.
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