It's Too Late To Apologise (Sorry About That)

Hello, I used to do a blog, remember? Well, here we are again. Topics. Topics, topics, topics.

Guilt's a nice good one, isn't it? Not cheery, but you can milk it quite a bit. Well, okay, I feel guilt of some form on a daily basis. I feel guilty that I'm a relatively comfortably-off white male living in a democracy that has enough of a socialist foundation (though for how much longer??? SATIRE) to mean that I will probably never starve to death. I feel guilty that I don't face oppression or conflict. I feel guilty that I spend my time feeling guilty instead of using my position to bring about better well-being for others. I feel guilty that I'm writing about feeling guilty, because I'm making it seem as if I actually do have a problem that's larger than the problems I feel guilty about not having. Multi-faceted, y'know?

I feel to some extent guilty that I can't in any way accept the opinions of people with different ideologies with my own, and I feel guilty that although I rationalise this by saying I'm annoyed at their unshifting positions influenced by their upbringing, that is an exact description of my views as well.

Guilt isn't necessarily always backed up by solid evidence of your wrong-doing, often it's completely hypothetical. In fact, I would go as far to say that guilt is strongest when it's illogical and based on nothing; guilt based on something real will fade when that real thing disappears, for example the mistrust of a friend - when they go back to trusting you the guilt tends to fade away. With illogical guilt, the proof is all in your mind, and as such is much harder to dissolve. Try telling an arachnibutyrophobic that peanut butter sticking to the roof of their mouth isn't the end of the world. It'll make no difference, because logic doesn't always beat the lack of such.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. Probably just an angry teen defence to be told "You don't know how lucky you are." Because I do. And I feel bad about it. Sorry. Sorry for being sorry.

Lists

Books I am going to read

1. Midwinterblood - Marcus Sedgewick
2. Oblivion - Anthony Horowitz
3. Insurgent - Veronica Roth
4. 1984 - George Orwell
5. Bad Science - Ben Goldacre
6. Amo, Amas, Amat, And All That - Harry Mount
7. The Autograph Man - Zadie Smith
8. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
9. The Dante Club - Matthew Pearl

Books I want to re-read

1. Divergent - Veronica Roth
2. Holes - Louis Sachar
3. Completely Unexpected Tales - Roald Dahl
4. Revolver - Marcus Sedgewick
5. We - John Dickinson
6. The Thornthwaite Inheritance - Gareth P. Jones

TV shows I want to watch

1. The Walking Dead
2. Breaking Bad
3. Parks and Recreation
4. Arrested Development
5. Firefly
6. 30 Rock
7. Fringe
8. Heroes
9. Lost

TV shows I want to rewatch

1. Community
2. Doctor Who
3. That Mitchell and Webb Look
4. The IT Crowd
5. Father Ted
6. Sherlock
7. Misfits

This makes up for an actual post, right?

Dear Michael,

I've been thinking about you for quite some time.

Doing research, in fact. Working out what you're like. More like remembering, actually.

All so I could write this letter to you. I feel that I'm coming across as mildly deranged, a bit of a stalker. Well, to add to your discomfort, I am at this very moment sitting in your house, using your things, and talking to your family.

Because, Michael, I am you. We're not entirely the same, otherwise there would be no point in having this conversation. No, there is a big difference. A year's difference, to be exact. You are standing at the start of 2012, whereas I am about to venture into 2013. We're quite different, you and I, and on a day of rash promises and self-reflection, now is the perfect time to talk to you.

Let's start with a low point - and let me tell you, this isn't enjoyable to say, any more so than it is enjoyable to hear. You are awful. You are really, really godawful. If it wouldn't rupture the space-time continuum, I would slap you. You're a third of the way through Year 10, and you've just found your niche in life. You have achieved membership into the friendship group you'd eyed up since year 7, you've stepped out of that ghastly period of self-piteous moping that plagued the school for all of Year 8, and you're in a new class with great people. You are, in truth, very happy. And because of this, you are a smug little arse.

No, don't try and protest. I've looked up every Facebook status you are about to make in January, and let me tell you, the sheer reek of superiority is nauseating. You think you're God's gift to the Earth. You toss witticisms and 'fuck society'-esque messages to the people, like a king tossing bread to the poor. You make observations that aren't fit to pave the floor of Memebase. You smirk to yourself, relishing in how much better you are than the unenlightened masses. You have no concept of living-and-let-living. You are Narcissus, and I am grimly pleased to tell you that 2012 is the year that you starve by a leafy poolside.

Essentially, you have gained enough intelligence to make you self-confident, but not enough to let you know that there is nothing big or clever about personally attacking people who aren't like you. I've thought about this for a long time, and I've come to the conclusion that because you spend a lot of your time apologising for being a dick in Years 7-9, you think that this means you can be a dick now. It's never crossed your mind that you might need to undergo a second stage of self-improvement, has it? Mull it over.

Well, now that we've covered a rather touchy subject, let's be more positive. I am not a brilliant person by any means, but I am safe in the knowledge that I am at least a little bit better than you. 2012 is the year that you grow up, Michael, and it's an embarrassing, awkward, but mostly very happy experience. Here are the steps that help you in your personal growth.

1. You join Tumblr. After the first few weeks of long text posts and bad self-analysis, you start to fit in. You learn a good deal about feminism, LGBT rights, the fluidity of sexuality, the concept of 'colour-blindness' and how it does more to increase racial inequality than decrease it, and generally how to tolerate people. Even more crucially, you learn NOT to be a social-justice blogger, and to laugh at life and enjoy how fucked-up everything is.

2. You read Zadie Smith's White Teeth. Which is a fantastic book, full of life. It's colourful, essentially, and I slightly envy you because you still have the pleasure of reading it to come. As a novel about three generations of mad, angry, funny, swearing Londoners of varying ethnicities and religions, it basically opens your eyes to culture, and how joyous, how downright bloody marvellous it is to live in Britain, full of so much diversity, full of good people and bad people.

3. You join Twitter, and it appeals to you. However, soon a group of people use your Twitter in order to find somebody's Tumblr, to find a post that discussed them in a negative light. You leave your personal account, finding everything a bit too bitchy, and retire to your secret account, which is only known about by one person. Until recently, but you don't have to worry about that yet. You have no audience, and nobody really cares what you tweet for a long, long time. You become a little more humble. Then things get better. You make lots and lots and lots of friends, and although you'll laugh at me, you'll get to a point where you love them. You meet sixth-formers and uni students, Year 8s and adults, people from everywhere from Cornwall to Lincoln to California to Nepal. Gay, straight, bisexual. These people will become so close to you that you will announce to them all your deepest and most personal secret, one only known by you, them, and one other confidant. Brace yourself, Michael, because you make said account to gain an audience, but what you get is a bizarre, messed-up family. This is by far the most significant change in 2012. Embrace it. Oh, by the way, Richard Osman from Pointless retweets you and an American journalist you respect a lot calls you 'very kind' and thanks you for your feedback. Oh yeah.

4. You lie to your parents to leave the house and meet a girl. No, not like that. A year would not be enough for you to become a womaniser. No, you spend three hours drinking one coffee and apologising for wronging her in the past, and she takes it very well. You'll know who I mean, because you feel guilty about it, and continue to feel that way until this meeting occurs. You build some bridges, my friend. You are, if not forgiven, understood.

5. You know the secret I mentioned? Well, you probably don't even know what I'm talking about. You go through a gradual journey of self-discovery, twee as it sounds, and go from considering features of yourself to be a possibility to accepting them as one of your defining characteristics. It feels really good, by the way. Ooh, I feel like Obi Wan Kenobi, being all irritatingly cryptic.

6. You achieve things that made you feel genuinely proud. Not arrogant, boastful, or smug, but genuinely proud, in a small and warm way. You are going to spend a good amount of time talking to some very sad people, two of whom considering suicide. Don't look daunted, it all turns out fine. You make a difference to these two people lives, in an extremely minute way, but it still makes you feel happy. 

I've been a bit too harsh on you. I'm sorry. You do try, Michael, and by no means am I the best person to lecture you about how self-absorbed you are. I am still far from a good person. But I'm confident that one day I'll get there. We'll get there. I'm making my new year's resolutions now, and you'll be making yours, I seem to recall. Well, what you wanted to achieve never happened, but some far more important things did. I can only hope that on January 1st, 2014, I'll look back at this post and think "Little did I know what was in store." Happy New Year, Michael. Oh, and cut your hair.

Crosby My Heart, And Hope To Die

Can you hear the sleighbells ringing? Feel the bite of frost? See the period dramas inexorably filling up the television schedules? Smell the surprising lack of roasting chestnuts? Yes my friends, Christmas descends upon us unyieldingly, an Imperial March of a festival but infinitely more cheerful. Soon enough the presents will be exchanged, stockings will be filled, and males up and down the country will suddenly realise that they can't watch The Sound of Music, because, erm, they need to, erm, do some cooking.
And where would Christmas be without its ever-present soundtrack? No, I don't mean the chirpy sound of the awful ASDA advert, which I dislike for three reasons (1. Disproves Santa's existence to children so explicitly it might as well just be a 3 minute video of a reindeer dying. 2. Demeaning to both mums and dads. 3. In the final 'perfect family Christmas' moment, the grandma is reading 50 Shades of Grey. Actually, I lie, this doesn't irritate me, it's fantastic. You go, girl.) Nor do I mean the discontent murmurs of the 'Stereotypical Daily Mail Reader' who apparently see political-correctness-gone-mad-I-mean-really-they-come-over-here-they-could-at-least-respect-our-traditions where the rest of us see a happy marriage of tradition and rampant consumerism. Oh look, I'm insulting an easy target and passing it off for edgy satire. Now I'm employing self-deprecating humour to distract from the fact that I genuinely did make a cheap and pretty bad joke. And now we've entered an observational Ouroboros, my self-referencing eating itself. I seem to have gone off on a tangent.
No, I am talking about songs and carols. Christmas music! Traditionally, a wealth of beautiful imagery, philosophical lyrics, and quiet yet joyous reverence. The simple metaphor of a holly bush, analysed, becomes a piece of Christian poetry. "In the bleak midwinter", a humble, elegant, and startlingly gorgeous description of a simple worshipper's view of Jesus' birth, put to a lovely melody. The lines "Very God, Begotten not created" in O Come All Ye Faithful are, as I have been told recently, the summation of the argument with Arianism about the hierarchy of the Holy Trinity. Not to be confused with the Aryanism, which led to very different arguments concerning the church. And who can forget the classic "Whence is that goodly fragrance flowing"? Everyone, apparently. King's College Cambridge name it as one of 25 popular carols on their CD, but nobody I've asked has ever heard of it.
We mustn't forget the more recent holiday music, of course, though I use the term 'recent' rather loosely. The legendary Bing Crosby has mastered the art of talking tunefully as an alternative to singing, and his persistent syncopation makes every one of his covers a wildly unpredictable thrill ride. His take on God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman was unusual, in quite the same way that certain varieties of life-threatening illnesses are. And then there's the load of sentimental Vera-Lynn-ish melodies, two of which tell us that the protagonist's father is either dead or going to be soon - as a THROWAWAY LINE.
There's a lot of contention for the prize of 'creepiest carol'. Santa Baby is the obvious choice, which regales us with the story of, oxymoronically, the mother of all daddy issues. My personal theory is that the sleigh-loving seductress who sings this shudderingly unsexy song is trying to find a replacement for her own father, who left home when she was young, possibly on Christmas Day or roundabouts. It's Freud's wet dream, although knowing him it would involve his estranged father and feature Carl Jung brandishing a courgette as well. It really is the antithesis of the family values that Christmas is meant to be built around. A contender, however, is Hark the Herald Angels Sing, purely for the fact that it contains the line "Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see". It sounds like the description of the 'chestburster' scene in Alien.
Carols bring back memories of a more innocent time, where we could all snigger at While Shepherds Washed Their Socks By Night, or "Most highly flavoured gravy". That's why I enjoy Christmas, because I get to act like a greedy and demanding toddler. Falalalala, lalalala.

Here's a seasonal joke I made up to finish off with:
Q: What do you strain pasta with in the run-up to Christmas?
A: An advent colander.

Hope you all have a White Christmas. If that's what you want, of course. Personally, I'm hoping for a sort of mauve.

Party, Not In The USA

There are many aspects of American culture which the British have enthusiastically tried to take on board, but with disappointing results. One example would be trick-or-treating; perfectly enjoyable in small town US suburbia, when brought back to Britain it met the slight hitch of the lack of local neighbourhood communities. It's almost commonplace for a staunchly patriotic middle-aged couple to refuse to give out sweets on Hallowe'en, whilst muttering about the Americanisation of modern society, and the fact that we're all going to hell on a hand-cart, but the same lack of participation in the USA could, if we rely on old children's films as our guide to their culture, result in social exile. (You know the type of film. It's Hallowe'en, and everybody is warned to stay away from the local witch, or somebody whose name is prefixed by Old Man, who inevitably lives on the corner, and whose house is akin to the gothic castle from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. They invariably turn out to be a lonely recluse whose spouse has died.)
Another example is that staple of American television, the side-salad that is the mid-season break. This is a winner with series in the US, mainly because they're ridiculously long and you can't go for 25 episodes without a huge climax of some sort. When translated to British television, however, the format suffers due to most series here having a maximum of about 13 episodes. Steven Moffat, the current head-writer for Doctor Who, adopted a mid-season break for the current series and its predecessor. It received mixed views, and although there were some who praised it, many (including myself) thought that it gave the characters only 7 episodes to build up a story arc and then have a momentous cliffhanger, resulting in one particularly bizarre point where the characters were planning a divorce WITHOUT TELLING EACH OTHER WHY THEY'D BROKEN UP. In the space of one minute, the characters had the brilliant idea of enquiring about this, and promptly got back together again.
But the one feature of US culture that I think fits least well into the mould of the UK is the end of year prom. Despite being held in July, the school is gripped with a feverish obsession with Kings, Queens, and bad disco tunes. The more optimistic of students are already getting prom dates, which is essentially gambling that there will be no other romantic action in your life for the rest of the school year. Standing in a classroom, you can hear excited conversation about whether it's more tasteful to arrive in a limo or to simply materialise in a whirlwind of glitter. The cynics are gleefully polishing their critique, and secretly enjoying that they get the opportunity to lambaste the materialistic nature of today's youth, and how modern society is, like, so fake?
All in all it makes for a jolly time. But I have reservations as to whether the prom really suits our culture. Although pretty much all American high-school movies are ridiculously exaggerated, you still get the impression, both from the media and the anecdotes of the internet, that the US high-school has a more clear-cut sense of hierarchy than we do here in Britain. There are those who are clearly popular, and those who are clearly not. When the Inbetweeners was recently adapted for American audiences, there was a lot more focus on how confusing it was that they didn't fit in either extreme, whereas the British version seemed to take it for granted that being between cool and uncool was a recognised social clique, not a lack of such. It's this sense of popularity that lends itself so well to the prom spirit, with the king and the queen, and it's certainly helped by the crucial facet of US culture which is a tendency to be more accepting of all things saccharine.
But to hold a prom in Britain? It's pretty much universally accepted that as a nation we are inherently cynical and sardonic - when faced with sickly sweet scenarios we are more inclined to be dubious than entranced. To add to this, from what I see in my school, the lines between popular and unpopular and blurry. There are numerous factions and subfactions and intermingling of the two. Popularity is measured in shades of grey, rather than existing as black and white. I am biased, of course, because I am within the school - an outsider may have the opinion that the hierarchy here is as obvious as it was in 17th Century aristocracy.
But the cynicism is rather tarnishing the vision of the perfect prom, for some. There are more tales of people planning to go in fancy dress than in suits, and 99% of all the suggestions I've heard for Prom King and Queen have been ironic. There is only one person I've heard of who is rumoured to want this coronation, and she's been quietly mocked for it for the last two weeks. She hasn't actually said that she wants to be the Prom Queen, and yet she's being ridiculed for being the type of person who might. Our cynicism is so strong it is surpassing apathy.
Come July, we will see. It could be a night full of suits and dresses, with excited chatter and polite applause for the pseudo-royals. But it's far more likely that we'll see a room full of pantomime horses and dinosaur costumes, cheering and wolf-whistling as the most testosterone-fuelled thug in the room climbs on to the stage reluctantly to be crowned Queen.

A Plea.

I feel as if I'm running out of inspiration for this blog.

I planned to do a post about the reasons why I dislike the professional football, but a) it has no jokes in and b) it isn't an interesting enough topic for me to write something eloquent or passionate about.

I planned to do a series of 'Buried Boxes' posts, each one finally getting off my chest a nasty secret about what I've done in the past - the worst points of me. I'd be happy to do that, but I wonder if it might be a little too self-piteous and uninteresting for people reading this.

I had an interesting idea to talk about the concept of true altruism, and whether the existence of a so-called natural high effectively disproves its existence, and a load of pretentious detail about that, but it seems too similar to my last posts (serious, solemn, not brilliantly written) which I've started to dislike.

I also planned a big post all about why I love villains in fiction, the different types of them that exist, and the characteristics of successful ones - I don't have much faith in what I could write, though, or how good that writing would be.

And then there's the final option: do a funny post. The real spanner in this particular works is the fact that I have misplaced my humour. I have come to the realisation that there are two types of joke I can make: puns/wordplay, and acidic rants at my pet hates. I can't write a blog post based on puns - they're too short and all I'm good at is copying other people's - and I can't come up with a really negative rant either. I think my life has become extremely positive and excellent lately, and while this is of course a good thing, my positivity means I have no fire left. I am content to let things be, see past their stereotypes, rather than make a funny jibe at them.

So, I turn to the reader. If you want me to do any of these, or have another suggestion, then please tell me. I don't know whether any of the 3 or 4 people who know about this blog are reading this - although that sentence was quite unnecessary, as its meaning would be counteracted if somebody read it, and thus the whole point of constructing it was an entirely useless endeavour. Anyhow, please help. God knows I need it.

Narrow-Minded

I have been stranded in this mental desert for longer than I can remember. All around me - dry thoughts and dunes of arid practicality. I crawl on, desperate for sweet inspiration. I see an oasis! It is an optimistic but critical view of teenage cultures. But as I reach for it, the mirage crumbles in front of me. I suddenly remember that I passed that topic a long time ago. Twice. I crawl on. I pray to an unknown god; I pray for inspiration, a measly drop of an idea. As I sink to my knees, my prayers are answered. There, poking out of the bland sand is a note. I unfurl it, noting it has been sent by the mysterious Freya, whoever this deity may be. It reads: 

"hmmmm i 'm not surewhat aboutSHERLOCK BEING POSTPONEDsorry noermnarrow minded people"

The desert collapses beneath me.

Hello, I'm here to talk about narrow-mindedness.Back in the day, I used to watch a cartoon adaptation of Batman for children's TV, cleverly retitled "The Batman". It was an extremely enjoyable programme, and notably dark - I was terrified by even the theme tune (which ended rather abruptly before a sinister voice leered "the BATMAANNNN" in a low and threatening voice). One episode which I do remember quite clearly was when Batman, through a rather lazy leap of science-fiction, was able to venture into the Joker's mind, and undoubtedly kick things.

I spend a worrying amount of time envisaging such mindscapes in my head, and I will use one as a metaphor for narrow-mindedness here. It is said that ignorance is bliss. In a way, I agree with that - there are some people who will quite happily occupy a single room in their mindscapes - happy, safe, and full of interesting and fascinating things to begin with. Once examined, they lose their interest, but still become nice. It is on the whole a very content existence.
We are all in this state at some point in our lives - some stay there till they die. But some of us will one day, by chance, discover a trapdoor beneath the bed. Grasping it, we drop down...into another room. This room is also full of fascinating trinkets and new toys to play with. Once we are done amusing ourselves, we notice that this room has 5 doors, each connecting to a new and unique room. Each of those rooms has 5 more doors.
You see the dilemma here. This is the Explorer's Hydra - by exploring, you merely confirm that there is more to explore. We are quite certain that the building we're in is finite, but we're not sure. At any rate, we can't visit every room. By opening that first door, we allow ourselves to experience more, but allow ourselves to understand that there are rooms out there that we will never see. A bittersweet scenario.
It represents learning. By opening ourselves to more culture and more science and more intrigue, we are also cursed with the knowledge that there's too much of it for us, and that we will never know as much as we want to. Ignorance is bliss, but a shallow bliss. Learning is a deeper gamble. It depends on  your outlook as to whether the positives outweigh the negatives.

I will never understand quarks. I will never truly appreciate the nuances of Marxism. I will never manage to venture beneath the tip of the iceberg as far as Eastern culture is concerned. I will never learn Latin.

I will, as will all of you, be constantly narrow-minded.
It's one of the saddest truths in the universe.