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.
Sunday, 16 December 2012
Sunday, 9 December 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 1 December 2012
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.
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
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.
"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.
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
"It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words."
"Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten."George Orwell, 1984.
Friday, 9 November 2012
Enlightenment
One of the things I prided myself on was the fact that I was more tolerable of people's practises because I understood more about them. I felt good because I was able to step out of the 'Evil Atheist' role that many non-believers with limited knowledge of religion so easily fit into. You know what I mean - the kind of people who spout gems like "God doesn't exist because the Big Bang" and "God is technically a rapist though ineeee?", and even "All religious people are basically evil innit?". I did have that phase myself, but just like the Memebase phase and the dark period of musical taste we shall call the Pre-Florence Era, I left it and became a wiser (if more embarrassed) person. I discovered that if you disagree with something, you don't have to voice an argument, and since I've been firmer friends with all from Christians to self-acclaimed mediums.
The reason I have descended into this pool of self-indulgence, this smug stew, is because in comparison it took me far longer to grasp some of the basics of feminism. I'd always though of myself as a feminist, simply because I'm not an arsehole, and yet I was still holding on to some incredibly ignorant beliefs.
I was, for example, one of those people who thought that make-up was a media construct to undermine women, and that anyone wearing loads of it was just doing it because they felt pressured to fit in and attract men, and that all skimpy clothing was sexualised and the product of a cruel, male-dominated society. I actually felt pity for women because I thought they were being demeaned, and thought that a lack of make-up etc. would lead to a better society. Can you imagine. Why was anyone friends with me until this year.
The steps in my revelation can be pinned down to the three Ms - Mum, Moran, and Moffat.
1. Mum - My mum told me something when I was in my early teens which had a profound effect on my feminist viewpoint, and that was "Girls don't dress for boys, that's a common misconception. They dress for their friends, and they dress for themselves." My mum is incredibly clever, so I was inclined to trust her.
2. Moran - Whilst on Tumblr a few months ago, I saw a quote from Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman. It talked about how wearing make-up wasn't a weakness, and that artifice is healthy and natural and empowering. I wrote a post a bit ago about being oneself and I mentioned make-up. This is the root of that.
3. Moffat - During the recent run of Doctor Who episodes, there were several accusations of sexism levelled towards Steven Moffat, Head Writer. Whilst I didn't agree with most of these, it pointed out a very obvious thing to me - many male writers think that having a woman who can hit people is a strong enough character. When it really isn't anything like that.
I don't like getting into feminist viewpoints too much, because there are escalating arguments that only match those of political ideologies. However, I think it's important to have a good grasp of what is still an example of brilliant people fighting against horrific injustice. Any males reading this: Look up some feminist writing.
Oh, and the hidden message in The Raven was "A visitor in December wrought sorrow for evermore."
The reason I have descended into this pool of self-indulgence, this smug stew, is because in comparison it took me far longer to grasp some of the basics of feminism. I'd always though of myself as a feminist, simply because I'm not an arsehole, and yet I was still holding on to some incredibly ignorant beliefs.
I was, for example, one of those people who thought that make-up was a media construct to undermine women, and that anyone wearing loads of it was just doing it because they felt pressured to fit in and attract men, and that all skimpy clothing was sexualised and the product of a cruel, male-dominated society. I actually felt pity for women because I thought they were being demeaned, and thought that a lack of make-up etc. would lead to a better society. Can you imagine. Why was anyone friends with me until this year.
The steps in my revelation can be pinned down to the three Ms - Mum, Moran, and Moffat.
1. Mum - My mum told me something when I was in my early teens which had a profound effect on my feminist viewpoint, and that was "Girls don't dress for boys, that's a common misconception. They dress for their friends, and they dress for themselves." My mum is incredibly clever, so I was inclined to trust her.
2. Moran - Whilst on Tumblr a few months ago, I saw a quote from Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman. It talked about how wearing make-up wasn't a weakness, and that artifice is healthy and natural and empowering. I wrote a post a bit ago about being oneself and I mentioned make-up. This is the root of that.
3. Moffat - During the recent run of Doctor Who episodes, there were several accusations of sexism levelled towards Steven Moffat, Head Writer. Whilst I didn't agree with most of these, it pointed out a very obvious thing to me - many male writers think that having a woman who can hit people is a strong enough character. When it really isn't anything like that.
I don't like getting into feminist viewpoints too much, because there are escalating arguments that only match those of political ideologies. However, I think it's important to have a good grasp of what is still an example of brilliant people fighting against horrific injustice. Any males reading this: Look up some feminist writing.
Oh, and the hidden message in The Raven was "A visitor in December wrought sorrow for evermore."
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Verse Fluctuation Declaration
I'm not sure if you're familiar with A Series Of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket, but one of the themes running through the series is the letters VFD. They represent a mysterious organisation, and by the end of the books it becomes apparent that they originally stood for "Volunteer Fire Department", but throughout every novel there is at least one instance of the aforementioned organisation creating a code or a machine or even a town with the same initials. A code that follows this rule is Verse Fluctuation Declaration.
Essentially, it is a way of hiding simple messages in poetry, by altering some of the words. Here is the example given in the books when it is first used:
If you want to check out more codes that the genius mind of Snicket has conjured up - and there's no reason why you shouldn't - go to this website: http://snicket.wikia.com/wiki/V.F.D._Codes
The only one you can really use yourself, unless you are a librarian or a taxi driver, is the Sebald code, but Verbal Fridge Dialogue is always fun. As for the coded greetings and responses, you should learn them just in case.
Essentially, it is a way of hiding simple messages in poetry, by altering some of the words. Here is the example given in the books when it is first used:
If a volunteer used the name of the poem "My Last Duchess," by Robert Browning in a coded communication, the title might instead be "My Last Wife," by the poet "Obert Browning" instead of Robert Browning. Filling in the mistakes would spell out "Duchess R."Essentially, the corrections are the message. Somebody I talk to quite a bit on Tumblr once tried his hand at writing his own VFD, which made me want to try it too. I chose Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,If you want to try and work out the melodramatic message within, find a copy of The Raven online, and compare the two...write down every correction you can see. I should warn you, some of the alterations are quite subtle - the first correction, and the first word of the message, is 'a'. I'll include the answer in my next post.
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came countless tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some spectre,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was during the bleak July,
And each separate dying ember threw its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of misery - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
Actually the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for crumpets.
If you want to check out more codes that the genius mind of Snicket has conjured up - and there's no reason why you shouldn't - go to this website: http://snicket.wikia.com/wiki/V.F.D._Codes
The only one you can really use yourself, unless you are a librarian or a taxi driver, is the Sebald code, but Verbal Fridge Dialogue is always fun. As for the coded greetings and responses, you should learn them just in case.
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
Ground
I haven't planned a post as such, but as I've put down 'writing a blog' on one of my sixth form application forms, I'd better keep this business up. This post will, ideally meander. It will, realistically, be rubbish. Apparently my blog is quite literally unfollowable. I will try and remedy this as soon as possible.
It's become very apparent that many of the most normal processes I experience are more interesting than I initially think. Take farming and planting. As an ancient species, how did the concept of burying the remains of food to make more of it come about? Especially considering food was pretty short, and foragers had to be frugal with their gatherings. Obviously the sensible explanation is that tribes of people just threw their waste onto the ground, and the seeds in that waste planted themselves and sprouted in due course, which the tribe then understood and replicated, but I am a reader and prefer a little less mundane theory. I like to assume that all successful civilisations that developed farming had an early religion which featured a belief in natural rebirth, the life cycle - returning life to the ground from whence it came. This would have involved plants, and so seeds were buried, starting life - the cultivation of said seeds was a later development. This could also have been the beginning of the culture of burying the dead - present in pretty much every civilisation on earth. It's really odd to think that perhaps early religion/belief basically boiled down to PUT THAT BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM, RIGHT NOW, OR YOU ARE GROUNDED (pun unintended).
Another example of a deceptively normal process is one I carried out earlier this morning. I took a small ceramic pot, and into it I put crushed seeds from a tropical plant. I let these crushed seeds mix with scalding water, until a dark infusion was prepared. To this most mysterious of potions, I added the breast milk of a grazing sow. The devilish concoction complete, I let it slip down my throat, and soon the ungodly effects begin to occur - I felt liquid energy course through my veins, radiating me from head to toe - the warmth of the liquid seemingly transferring itself to my organs in a heartbeat. My senses were sharper - I was more awake, more alert, more alive. I had, in my alchemist's den, created the most coveted prize in all black magic - the elixir of pure, unadulterated life.
In other words, I made a cup of instant coffee.
(I just know someone will be itching to chide me for my referral to coffee granules as seeds when they are in fact crushed beans, but do remember that though I have a penchant for semantics, I have an unrivalled apathy for biology. I went to see Ben Miller discuss his new book on Saturday, and my favourite quote was that he felt that secondary school biology was "just naming things".)
On one last note, I would urge you all to start watching the US comedy series Community, even if like me you can only do this online. It's the most creative, funny, surreal series I have ever watched, and it's brilliant. What other sitcom can pull off a clip show, but with fake clips of episodes that never happened?
It's become very apparent that many of the most normal processes I experience are more interesting than I initially think. Take farming and planting. As an ancient species, how did the concept of burying the remains of food to make more of it come about? Especially considering food was pretty short, and foragers had to be frugal with their gatherings. Obviously the sensible explanation is that tribes of people just threw their waste onto the ground, and the seeds in that waste planted themselves and sprouted in due course, which the tribe then understood and replicated, but I am a reader and prefer a little less mundane theory. I like to assume that all successful civilisations that developed farming had an early religion which featured a belief in natural rebirth, the life cycle - returning life to the ground from whence it came. This would have involved plants, and so seeds were buried, starting life - the cultivation of said seeds was a later development. This could also have been the beginning of the culture of burying the dead - present in pretty much every civilisation on earth. It's really odd to think that perhaps early religion/belief basically boiled down to PUT THAT BACK WHERE IT CAME FROM, RIGHT NOW, OR YOU ARE GROUNDED (pun unintended).
Another example of a deceptively normal process is one I carried out earlier this morning. I took a small ceramic pot, and into it I put crushed seeds from a tropical plant. I let these crushed seeds mix with scalding water, until a dark infusion was prepared. To this most mysterious of potions, I added the breast milk of a grazing sow. The devilish concoction complete, I let it slip down my throat, and soon the ungodly effects begin to occur - I felt liquid energy course through my veins, radiating me from head to toe - the warmth of the liquid seemingly transferring itself to my organs in a heartbeat. My senses were sharper - I was more awake, more alert, more alive. I had, in my alchemist's den, created the most coveted prize in all black magic - the elixir of pure, unadulterated life.
In other words, I made a cup of instant coffee.
(I just know someone will be itching to chide me for my referral to coffee granules as seeds when they are in fact crushed beans, but do remember that though I have a penchant for semantics, I have an unrivalled apathy for biology. I went to see Ben Miller discuss his new book on Saturday, and my favourite quote was that he felt that secondary school biology was "just naming things".)
On one last note, I would urge you all to start watching the US comedy series Community, even if like me you can only do this online. It's the most creative, funny, surreal series I have ever watched, and it's brilliant. What other sitcom can pull off a clip show, but with fake clips of episodes that never happened?
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Boxes, Bitchiness, and Being Yourself
There is a reason you should let theoretical physicists buy you birthday presents, because whatever box they give you, the contents will not be disappointing.
Think about it. In biology, what could be in a box? A plant. Possibly a skull. In the philosophical end of physics and maths, what could be in a box? Dead/Alive cats! Anti-entropy caused by a small demon with a lever! Infinity! A new dimension! Your future self! A menagerie of impossibility. I wasn't kidding, by the way, about the little Lucifer with a taste for categorisation - look up "Maxwell's Demon".
On another topic entirely, whoever came up with the frankly bizarre idea that being oneself was in any way a good philosophy? Being yourself is boring. Being yourself allows no form of healthy escapism. I'm acting now, in writing in a confident and self-assured manner, and frankly it's one of the best feelings there is. Artifice and make-believe are in no way weaknesses. To live in a world where actors are idolised but being 'fake' is frowned upon is contradictory and incredibly confusing. Surprisingly changing a part of yourself and putting on a mask is not a way of giving in to others. It's about self-empowerment, doing something for your own self-esteem - and while we're at it, you can write that down as my argument for make-up and 'sluttish' clothing. Oh, and I should mention that in my experience the people who most commonly use the "I'm just being myself/keeping it real" are the most obnoxious. If you have a flaw, or an issue with yourself, DON'T accept it. Try to change it, and if you can't, THEN accept it. End of lecture.
On the subject of 'keeping it real', I think this is a trait that perfectly pairs itself with sniping and gossip. I long for the sweet taste of repression, for a society where people have negative opinions and don't voice them. Insulting someone seems to have become a slightly sinful indulgence to share with friends - a cold desert in the truest sense of the phrase. A bitchy blancmange. Une glace glaciale. The inherent stoicism of the British is probably incredibly unhealthy, but by God it's OURS. Keep it that way.
Think about it. In biology, what could be in a box? A plant. Possibly a skull. In the philosophical end of physics and maths, what could be in a box? Dead/Alive cats! Anti-entropy caused by a small demon with a lever! Infinity! A new dimension! Your future self! A menagerie of impossibility. I wasn't kidding, by the way, about the little Lucifer with a taste for categorisation - look up "Maxwell's Demon".
On another topic entirely, whoever came up with the frankly bizarre idea that being oneself was in any way a good philosophy? Being yourself is boring. Being yourself allows no form of healthy escapism. I'm acting now, in writing in a confident and self-assured manner, and frankly it's one of the best feelings there is. Artifice and make-believe are in no way weaknesses. To live in a world where actors are idolised but being 'fake' is frowned upon is contradictory and incredibly confusing. Surprisingly changing a part of yourself and putting on a mask is not a way of giving in to others. It's about self-empowerment, doing something for your own self-esteem - and while we're at it, you can write that down as my argument for make-up and 'sluttish' clothing. Oh, and I should mention that in my experience the people who most commonly use the "I'm just being myself/keeping it real" are the most obnoxious. If you have a flaw, or an issue with yourself, DON'T accept it. Try to change it, and if you can't, THEN accept it. End of lecture.
On the subject of 'keeping it real', I think this is a trait that perfectly pairs itself with sniping and gossip. I long for the sweet taste of repression, for a society where people have negative opinions and don't voice them. Insulting someone seems to have become a slightly sinful indulgence to share with friends - a cold desert in the truest sense of the phrase. A bitchy blancmange. Une glace glaciale. The inherent stoicism of the British is probably incredibly unhealthy, but by God it's OURS. Keep it that way.
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Trees
Today we went for a walk. I rooted around the garage for my hiking boots, and found that after my Confido adventures, they are now so filthy they have become fossils. The laces had such a thick crust of mud that tying them was like trying to fold uncooked tagliatelle. Nevertheless, I did manage to secure them.
On our travels, we came across a huge walled garden, hidden in among a forest, with no manor house to accompany it. It was quite eerie, if I'm honest - it seemed very much at odds with the landscape, a strictly square area sparsely filled with a few symmetrically planted trees and some trimmed bushes, in amongst an untamed, thriving, colourful Eden. I've never been a fan of the gardens that so often surround huge houses - they're too formal, too empty, to large. Too open, especially. A garden is quite a personal thing, and in my mind the best gardens are small, covered in trees, with endless secret alcoves and hidden seats, flowing streams and nymph-like statues concealed by the yew trees.
Yew trees are wonderful. Prized by the Celtic druids for healing properties, and yet seen as the wood of death. They seem to encapsulate their environment - the branches and leaves positively drip down, silky and flowing and supernatural. Moving on.
Walking through woodland in autumn is always quite beautiful. I've never been a fan of nature in spring (lambs and daffodils are so saccharine) or in summer (the air is hot and sluggish, yet there is so much liveliness among the insects), but in autumn and winter it's quite a magical set of surroundings. The overwhelming green is swept away to be replaced by a silent forest fire of oranges and reds. Thick, suffocating foliage drops to reveal the more stoic but infinitely more interesting sight of gnarled trunk and twisted roots. There is an earthy smell that feels more natural than that of any blossom.
One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen in nature was when I was walking in another wood nearby a few months ago; it was on the side of a steep hill, and was quite dense. Due to this, sunlight only came from one direction, where it shined on the side of the hill. This caused quite an astounding effect of all the trees' branches facing away from the hill - reaching out for sunlight desperately. An quite gothic anthropomorphic twist. Made a little darker by the winter months, as there were no leaves. The branches curled like hands.
Our route back took us through the graveyard of our local church. We stopped to have a look at the graves. Each one was individually fascinating - the date, the name, the font. There were a few that dated back to the mid 1700s, which all started with the words "Here lieth". My Dad found one that detailed the difference between those times and now most effectively - it described the resting place of a man from Yorkshire, who as such was known as a 'traveller'.
Being in Scouts such a long time, it occurred to me that I've spent quite a good deal of my childhood playing here, hiding amongst the dead men, careless fingers grabbing onto solemn stone. Even now, standing there evokes a sense of either muted sadness or peace, I can't work out which. They're often interlinked, I suppose. In the wise words of a woman who isn't real, "Sad is happy for deep people." Today's been a nice, peaceful day. I hope you have many of these for yourself over the years.
On our travels, we came across a huge walled garden, hidden in among a forest, with no manor house to accompany it. It was quite eerie, if I'm honest - it seemed very much at odds with the landscape, a strictly square area sparsely filled with a few symmetrically planted trees and some trimmed bushes, in amongst an untamed, thriving, colourful Eden. I've never been a fan of the gardens that so often surround huge houses - they're too formal, too empty, to large. Too open, especially. A garden is quite a personal thing, and in my mind the best gardens are small, covered in trees, with endless secret alcoves and hidden seats, flowing streams and nymph-like statues concealed by the yew trees.
Yew trees are wonderful. Prized by the Celtic druids for healing properties, and yet seen as the wood of death. They seem to encapsulate their environment - the branches and leaves positively drip down, silky and flowing and supernatural. Moving on.
Walking through woodland in autumn is always quite beautiful. I've never been a fan of nature in spring (lambs and daffodils are so saccharine) or in summer (the air is hot and sluggish, yet there is so much liveliness among the insects), but in autumn and winter it's quite a magical set of surroundings. The overwhelming green is swept away to be replaced by a silent forest fire of oranges and reds. Thick, suffocating foliage drops to reveal the more stoic but infinitely more interesting sight of gnarled trunk and twisted roots. There is an earthy smell that feels more natural than that of any blossom.
One of the most brilliant things I've ever seen in nature was when I was walking in another wood nearby a few months ago; it was on the side of a steep hill, and was quite dense. Due to this, sunlight only came from one direction, where it shined on the side of the hill. This caused quite an astounding effect of all the trees' branches facing away from the hill - reaching out for sunlight desperately. An quite gothic anthropomorphic twist. Made a little darker by the winter months, as there were no leaves. The branches curled like hands.
Our route back took us through the graveyard of our local church. We stopped to have a look at the graves. Each one was individually fascinating - the date, the name, the font. There were a few that dated back to the mid 1700s, which all started with the words "Here lieth". My Dad found one that detailed the difference between those times and now most effectively - it described the resting place of a man from Yorkshire, who as such was known as a 'traveller'.
Being in Scouts such a long time, it occurred to me that I've spent quite a good deal of my childhood playing here, hiding amongst the dead men, careless fingers grabbing onto solemn stone. Even now, standing there evokes a sense of either muted sadness or peace, I can't work out which. They're often interlinked, I suppose. In the wise words of a woman who isn't real, "Sad is happy for deep people." Today's been a nice, peaceful day. I hope you have many of these for yourself over the years.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Non-Linear
- You, if you follow the timeline of reading, i.e from top to bottom, will see my timeline of writing, i.e. dotted about, very confusing.
- By that I mean that I am writing this in a correct narrative order, in which the whole post is understandable.
- Truthfully, though, this post was just designed because I'm pretentious.
- In actual fact, I am starting new bullet points above, below, close, and far from the one I am finishing.
- So while the point of the paragraph is instantly recognisable to me, for you it takes some time.
- Contrastingly, from my point of view from my writing timeline, your reading timeline, i.e. the top to bottom flow, is the thing that is confused and dotted about.
- Frankly, the whole thing is so messed up I could hide a huge secret in the middle and nobody would notice.
- Nevertheless, I suppose you could argue that this shows the relativity of time, if we say that that reading/writing is like time-travelling.
- Pretentiousness feeds on people being confused and annoyed by you. My aim has been achieved, then. Goodnight.
- Questioning your sanity? The order is OBHISFANYCMTP.
- Another point to make is that this blog post has no real significance, or overlying point, it's just that your frustration amuses me. Ahahaha.
- However, while I am writing this in order, I am not finishing a point and starting the next bullet point below it.
- One thing that Jacob's post 'Tuesday' has pointed out to me is the interesting idea of linear writing.
- Mess is relative. Mess could be seen as order, if order is seen as mess.
A non-linear text post.
Thursday, 18 October 2012
Armoured Farmers
Prepare to readdress all your preconceptions, because I've got a conundrum for you: why has there never been a single instance of archery in The Archers?
This is a query that has been doggedly burdening me for the last 4 minutes, possibly because I'm a Sagittarius and I assume that means we're all obsessed with archery. No doubt because Saturn is going into a menopausal state and bisecting the motet of Orion's orbit, or whatever the astrological terminology is.
Obviously my dream scenario would be if the titular Archers were not a family but an elite vigilante justice team, a bit like the Avengers but where everybody is Hawkeye, and all the villains are horses or fête saboteurs. But having secured an interview with the BBC, I was reminded that the radio serial has been in existence for 60 years and that changing the fundamental premise now might cause continuity errors.
Even so, you'd think one of the writers would have come up with it as a gimmick, but no such luck. Perhaps it would be too ironic. We need a spin-off series, maybe The Archers: Ultimatum, where members of the family in question roam Ambridge with murderous intent, killing invariably tired men and invariably posh women with extreme prejudice. Tea-rooms are set alight, token Scottish characters say token Scottish phrases, and middle-aged uncles stop worrying about the financial problems they're facing and realise it's probably because they own a farm in the credit crunch - and then proceed to run for their lives. Meanwhile, down at one of 19 local pubs (you either own a pub or a farm in Ambridge), a previously mistrusted immigrant worker is redeemed in the eyes of the local gossips as he rescues Clare Balding from the falling rafters. Clare Balding, of course, is there because she's a mildly posh older woman and it's a career requirement; the storyline instead explains she's there to judge a cake competition, or because she heard the local horses beckoning to her in her sleep. The episode ends with the screams of the dying, but just to keep up the tradition, they are just background noise to a mother coming to the realisation that it was her son that drove the satanic dagger into the vegetable fair's prize parsnip. The theme tune plays. Well. A dubstep remix, in any case.
The only explanation I can offer for my slow descent into gleeful megalomania is that I haven't actually spent an entire morning in my house for over three weeks. Let it be of some comfort to you that I shall end these dark days on Saturday. Amen.
This is a query that has been doggedly burdening me for the last 4 minutes, possibly because I'm a Sagittarius and I assume that means we're all obsessed with archery. No doubt because Saturn is going into a menopausal state and bisecting the motet of Orion's orbit, or whatever the astrological terminology is.
Obviously my dream scenario would be if the titular Archers were not a family but an elite vigilante justice team, a bit like the Avengers but where everybody is Hawkeye, and all the villains are horses or fête saboteurs. But having secured an interview with the BBC, I was reminded that the radio serial has been in existence for 60 years and that changing the fundamental premise now might cause continuity errors.
Even so, you'd think one of the writers would have come up with it as a gimmick, but no such luck. Perhaps it would be too ironic. We need a spin-off series, maybe The Archers: Ultimatum, where members of the family in question roam Ambridge with murderous intent, killing invariably tired men and invariably posh women with extreme prejudice. Tea-rooms are set alight, token Scottish characters say token Scottish phrases, and middle-aged uncles stop worrying about the financial problems they're facing and realise it's probably because they own a farm in the credit crunch - and then proceed to run for their lives. Meanwhile, down at one of 19 local pubs (you either own a pub or a farm in Ambridge), a previously mistrusted immigrant worker is redeemed in the eyes of the local gossips as he rescues Clare Balding from the falling rafters. Clare Balding, of course, is there because she's a mildly posh older woman and it's a career requirement; the storyline instead explains she's there to judge a cake competition, or because she heard the local horses beckoning to her in her sleep. The episode ends with the screams of the dying, but just to keep up the tradition, they are just background noise to a mother coming to the realisation that it was her son that drove the satanic dagger into the vegetable fair's prize parsnip. The theme tune plays. Well. A dubstep remix, in any case.
The only explanation I can offer for my slow descent into gleeful megalomania is that I haven't actually spent an entire morning in my house for over three weeks. Let it be of some comfort to you that I shall end these dark days on Saturday. Amen.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Using a complex system of mirrors to stare at myself lying on a long couch.
It's going to be another confession, I'm afraid.
One of the things that annoys me, and I mean REALLY annoys me, I mean BILE HAS GAINED SENTIENCE annoys me, is when people, when you're having a conversation, decide to claim it for their own subject by sticking a big metaphorical flag in it.
Another variation is when you are recounting an event to somebody, and before you've even finished they change the subject. I don't mean 'decide to take the scenic route with the subject'. I mean 'drive the subject into a lake, kidnap the passengers and take them to a completely different subject, perhaps in this analogy in the guise of a light aircraft'.
Two people I know do these two things a lot, one a friend and the other a family member, and it drives me up the wall. I know it's only to gain some attention, and as such I should be supportive and let them talk, so they might gain some confidence. And yet, my inner git triumphs.
So why do I feel these spasm of rage when people do this? It's no normal annoyance. I get annoyed by the narrative inconsistencies in Olly Murs' song Accidental, but I (for the most part) stay calm about it. This is different.
Let's apply some motherf***ing Freudian theory to this issue. (If you understood how apt that adjective was, you can stay and have chocolate fondants) If you react with violent, bordering on physical dislike for a certain thing, it is most likely to do with a traumatic experience involving that thing that you are trying to repress.
While they weren't exactly traumatic, we can apply this theory to the fact I continually try to repress all memories of Years 7 to 9. During this, I exhibited the despised feature we're currently looking at, and many more odious personality traits. Anything that reminds me of this, therefore, threatens to bring it back, along with a side-order of embarrassment chips and guilt gravy. I meet these stimuli, thus, with over-exaggerated aggression. Simple.
This, by the way, is what happens when you pair teenage angst with basic knowledge of psychological principles. Self-analysis to the point of compulsion. Ah, to be a self-unaware mathematical thinker.
(I should point out that Freud, whilst certainly the most famous brainy dude, is by no means the most respected in the psychology world. Take everything he says with a penis of salt. PINCH! I mean pinch!)
Finally, this is for Jacob. Till the next time, goodbye.
One of the things that annoys me, and I mean REALLY annoys me, I mean BILE HAS GAINED SENTIENCE annoys me, is when people, when you're having a conversation, decide to claim it for their own subject by sticking a big metaphorical flag in it.
Another variation is when you are recounting an event to somebody, and before you've even finished they change the subject. I don't mean 'decide to take the scenic route with the subject'. I mean 'drive the subject into a lake, kidnap the passengers and take them to a completely different subject, perhaps in this analogy in the guise of a light aircraft'.
Two people I know do these two things a lot, one a friend and the other a family member, and it drives me up the wall. I know it's only to gain some attention, and as such I should be supportive and let them talk, so they might gain some confidence. And yet, my inner git triumphs.
So why do I feel these spasm of rage when people do this? It's no normal annoyance. I get annoyed by the narrative inconsistencies in Olly Murs' song Accidental, but I (for the most part) stay calm about it. This is different.
Let's apply some motherf***ing Freudian theory to this issue. (If you understood how apt that adjective was, you can stay and have chocolate fondants) If you react with violent, bordering on physical dislike for a certain thing, it is most likely to do with a traumatic experience involving that thing that you are trying to repress.
While they weren't exactly traumatic, we can apply this theory to the fact I continually try to repress all memories of Years 7 to 9. During this, I exhibited the despised feature we're currently looking at, and many more odious personality traits. Anything that reminds me of this, therefore, threatens to bring it back, along with a side-order of embarrassment chips and guilt gravy. I meet these stimuli, thus, with over-exaggerated aggression. Simple.
This, by the way, is what happens when you pair teenage angst with basic knowledge of psychological principles. Self-analysis to the point of compulsion. Ah, to be a self-unaware mathematical thinker.
(I should point out that Freud, whilst certainly the most famous brainy dude, is by no means the most respected in the psychology world. Take everything he says with a penis of salt. PINCH! I mean pinch!)
Finally, this is for Jacob. Till the next time, goodbye.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
The Integrity of Noise
I think there is an interesting mindset, held by those in periods of extreme sadness or depression, that happiness is actually something to be avoided By this I mean that when I talk to people who are sad, they invariably say that the happy side of them in public is fake and brash and awful, whereas the quiet and perhaps more miserable side is their true self and good.
The truth, of course, is that you don't have to be quiet or reflective or sad to be wise and insightful and true. Comedy and jokes often say more than poetry. Loudness and energy and joy for life is perhaps more honest than teary introspection. Singing Mr Brightside until your lungs feel sandpapered is a better option than getting into a philosophical headlock while sobbing into some cold chicken jalfrezi.
Loud, brashy humour is a facet, not a façade, to put it rather bluntly.
The truth, of course, is that you don't have to be quiet or reflective or sad to be wise and insightful and true. Comedy and jokes often say more than poetry. Loudness and energy and joy for life is perhaps more honest than teary introspection. Singing Mr Brightside until your lungs feel sandpapered is a better option than getting into a philosophical headlock while sobbing into some cold chicken jalfrezi.
Loud, brashy humour is a facet, not a façade, to put it rather bluntly.
Monday, 15 October 2012
Confido? Es Divertido*
I think the surrealist moment of the weekend was when I looked around me and saw that a privately educated taekwondo-lover, a mild-mannered maths genius, and me, all as port-out-starboard-home as aristocracy**, were all in what I can only describe as a moshpit. And nobody cared.
I should say, this wasn't your average moshpit***. For one, we were all dressed as zombies. Secondly, the tunes that instigated said moshing weren't just the products of Messrs Rida and Basshunter, but also the YMCA and the Hokey Cokey. Finally, we weren't at a gig - we were at Confido, a Scout and Explorer camp with nearly 1100 attendees.
I won't bore you with the details, but I had a great time. I tried off-road segways, Europe's longest mobile zipwire, archery, stand-on-a-podium-facing-an-opponent-on-his-and-try-to-bash-him-off-with-a-stick, and Scare Valley, a forest walk complete with dry ice, strobe lighting, netting, and about 50 zombies. All in all it was fun.
I also managed to 'pass the initiation test', as it were, with a group of people after I managed to sneak back into the queue to get a second cookie for somebody who was climbing at the time. I mention this only because I enjoy the irony of using my inconspicuousness to gain attention.
I came back to a family crisis of sorts, and a good friend who needed comforting, but I had a lovely time and I think it serves as a reminder to those people for whom the word Scout is instantly paired with the words Bob a Job. Not to mention that although I feel more free to be myself when I'm around my school friends, it was some lovely escapism, and a good way to counteract the mostly awful time I had the weekend before, on another camp.
I shall leave this post with a conclusion like a blunt pencil.
*"Confido? It's fun."
**I should mention I'm not actually upper-class, but I do have quite a posh accent, and I'm at the age where the lines between self-deprecation and violent self-dislike are distinctly blurred.
***Or maybe it was. I'm not really up on the whole moshing scene.****
****My habit of using far too many asterisks comes from my friend Jacob: asiiml.blogspot.co.uk. And also from Philip Ardagh.
I should say, this wasn't your average moshpit***. For one, we were all dressed as zombies. Secondly, the tunes that instigated said moshing weren't just the products of Messrs Rida and Basshunter, but also the YMCA and the Hokey Cokey. Finally, we weren't at a gig - we were at Confido, a Scout and Explorer camp with nearly 1100 attendees.
I won't bore you with the details, but I had a great time. I tried off-road segways, Europe's longest mobile zipwire, archery, stand-on-a-podium-facing-an-opponent-on-his-and-try-to-bash-him-off-with-a-stick, and Scare Valley, a forest walk complete with dry ice, strobe lighting, netting, and about 50 zombies. All in all it was fun.
I also managed to 'pass the initiation test', as it were, with a group of people after I managed to sneak back into the queue to get a second cookie for somebody who was climbing at the time. I mention this only because I enjoy the irony of using my inconspicuousness to gain attention.
I came back to a family crisis of sorts, and a good friend who needed comforting, but I had a lovely time and I think it serves as a reminder to those people for whom the word Scout is instantly paired with the words Bob a Job. Not to mention that although I feel more free to be myself when I'm around my school friends, it was some lovely escapism, and a good way to counteract the mostly awful time I had the weekend before, on another camp.
I shall leave this post with a conclusion like a blunt pencil.
*"Confido? It's fun."
**I should mention I'm not actually upper-class, but I do have quite a posh accent, and I'm at the age where the lines between self-deprecation and violent self-dislike are distinctly blurred.
***Or maybe it was. I'm not really up on the whole moshing scene.****
****My habit of using far too many asterisks comes from my friend Jacob: asiiml.blogspot.co.uk. And also from Philip Ardagh.
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