Book of The Day!

I love to read. A lot.

So generally I do not have one favourite book, but rather lots of favourite books for different reasons.

Books that make me laugh to books that make me cry, books that send shivers down my spine to books that act as a comfort and give me strength.

The last one might sound a little strange, but depending on what events are going on in my world or the type of mood I’m in, I can always rely on a book to escape to – to take my mind away when the going gets tough or to inspire me.

One such book is Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.

Admittedly, I’ve only read it a few times and never actually chose to read it at first. It was given as a set text as part of my English degree and I only first picked it up around a year ago.

To be honest, I thought it was complete rubbish at first but as you read on, you really get into Tess’s story.

Tess is from a poor family but is forced to claim kinship with the wealthy D’Urbervilles and seek a portion of their family fortune.

Unfortunately, it is upon meeting her ‘cousin’ that Tess’s downfall ensues.

Without spoiling the book, Tess is the epitome of a wronged woman – marginalized and made to be a scapegoat by the masculine world in which she lives.

Despite being written in the 19th century, the experiences of Tess and the themes in the novel are universal – something that people everywhere will have experienced at some point in their own lives.

Something that you can relate to.

Tess constantly seems to hit rock bottom, yet amazingly carries on. Why? Because it’s all she can do. She doesn’t give up, but gets on with life’s trials and toils.

In a weird way, this is a comfort because no matter how bad I think life might be, it’s nowhere near as terrible as the life of Tess.

Potty Problems?

As with every day, Mother Nature tends to call now and again.

Recently, I ‘paid a visit’ in the ladies on the second floor of our beloved J block at the University of Westminster’s Harrow Campus.

I sat down and was quietly doing my ‘business’ when I noticed a sign on the back of the door which read:



I could just be a trifle pedantic and petty, but could someone please tell me the best way to ‘minimise use’?!

As far as I am concerned, if I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go. Should I really risk my life and hold it all in for five hours every day?!

Seizing The Day

I spent last week in my glorious hometown of Newcastle – partly to celebrate one of my best friend’s birthday and see all my other mates, and partly so that I could get a copious amount of hugs from the infamous Mrs. H.

Returning to London was much the same as it was after Christmas – I didn’t want to come back.

Recently, I just haven’t felt comfortable in London. Not because I don’t enjoy living here or like the people I’ve met here, but because I always feel an overwhelming need to run home and get a hug. That’s obviously the seven-year old girl inside me!

So partly to satisfy my childish need for my mum to look after me, and partly to ‘seize the day’, I made a rash but executive decision to book yet more tickets home next week.

Not good at all for my ever-dwindling bank balance, but definitely good for the soul!

I’ve learnt a lot these past few months and I’m still learning.

I’m not talking about media law or feature writing, but weird life lessons – the kind you only learn when some major event happens and you realize how precious certain things and people are to you.

Certain people - my family and my friends.

In particular, friends that I haven’t seen in such a long time because its true that you don’t know what you’ve got until its gone and it hurts to have these kind of regrets in life. Regretting that you should have called someone or seen someone, even just text someone a lot more than you did.

So I’m going back to Newcastle for a University reunion – for my old housemate’s birthday and to see all my friends who I haven’t seen since last summer. To make an effort and seize the day.

And to get a hug from Mrs. H of course!

On Running (Part Two).

I haven’t been sleeping too well recently – either it will take me a long time to get to sleep or I’ll nod off straight away but wake up ridiculously early. Either way, I’ll wake up countless times during the night.

So in a bid to rectify this and wear myself out, I’ve recently taken up running again.

Although there is the inevitable pain, sweat and tears, I actually enjoy running – it is probably the only time that I NEVER think too much. I can’t. I’m too busy concentrating on not slipping in the mud, running into someone or just toppling over altogether.

I’ve enjoyed running from an early age and all modesty aside, I used to be quite good at it. That is, before I got older and lazier!

I started running at primary school, when I was about nine. I remember because my school got new cross country tracksuits for the team which me and a few others had to model for everyone in mass one day. Classy.

I was always picked to represent the school at competitions, either in sprinting or in cross country. This continued into secondary school where the teachers made me do the 1500 metres all the time, despite my protestations that I preferred the 800 metres or cross country. They ignored me.

Then, I think at 16, I just stopped running. I don’t really know why – probably the whole thing with being a teenager?!

I regret this. Not only because ever since I started university the first time round I wanted to take it up again but was just too lazy and/or hung-over, and secondly because now I’m crap.

My good friend Kate Bermingham had a nasty experience with a nice run in the countryside over the Christmas period, and while running can be a horrific experience, I think that the urban landscape can be much more hospitable than the countryside.

But I think my main secrets for running success are good trainers and inspirational music; Rocky Balboa style.

Although, ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen is pretty fantastic and will suffice!

The Future of Nursing.

As part of my incredibly interesting work experience at Health Service Journal, and I’m not being sarcastic, I attended ‘The Future of Nursing’ conference today.

It was actually fairly interesting, with a lot of big-wig types from the industry making presentations about the challenge of nursing, the opportunities it offers and the need to develop educational resources for example.

And then there was David Cameron…

In his address to the conference, Mr. Cameron asserted that the Conservatives would be making the NHS a political priority.

Nurses are the NHS he said, and if the government can get nursing right, then they will get the NHS right.

Healthcare in Britain is constantly changing and nurses play a huge part in every aspect of that change

Cameron said he believed that past governments have tended to approach the NHS like a machine, thinking that it can be reorganized without consideration for the people.

The conservatives will pledge “no more pointless reorganizations. No more restructuring at the expense of the people who work in the system.”

Currently, there is disillusionment with target culture which is endemic within the NHS, he said. Healthcare workers should focus on patients and not on government targets

Despite this, Mr. Cameron also said that he wants the NHS to exceed European averages in survival and recovery rates. Surely this is a political target, even though he said that he wants to take the politics out of the day-to-day running of the NHS?

Cameron also had some interesting things to say about employment in the nursing field, which can be seen at BBC online.

So to conclude, today was fairly interesting. David Cameron is a good public speaker and really engaged my attention. He was also wearing a nice tie. It was green.

The Answer Is Blowin’ In The Wind.

It took the best part of two hours to get home this evening.

Two hours.

I could have gotten half way to Newcastle in that time, had GNER not cancelled its trains in and out of King’s Cross.

The reason? Wind.

Now this may be a silly question, but how on earth is the British transport system to cope with the inevitable effects of global warming if the entire underground and many rail services go to pot because it’s a little bit blowy outside?!

Forget the threat of global terrorism, it seems that the most pressing thing that Mr. Blair’s government should ‘waste’ our money on is transport and climate change…

Just a thought.

(The picture is an artist's impression of the wind blowing the trees. Don't be confused by the jovial expression on Mr. Wind's face. He is really mean and full of rage. "Grr" was his only comment.)

Friends Reunited

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.

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...

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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?