An Hour In The Life Of Me

You’re probably wondering why I think anyone would care about an uneventful hour of my life two weeks ago. You’re probably right; no-one does. That doesn’t stop me though. The following words are a stream of consciousness: Stuff my brain ordered my fingers to type with any direct input from me, as part of an assignment for the ‘Creative Writing’ side of my University degree. Make sense? No. Oh. Well essentially I sat outside my University accommodation for an hour, and wrote down what I saw, heard, smelt and felt. Anyway, I found it quite interesting to type, and it is relatively humorous, so I thought I would share it with you good people. I hope you do enjoy it.

“I’m sat on a bench, with my shower fresh hair, underneath the forever watching CCTV camera. I decided seeing as I was outside, in public, with people, with my laptop, I would sit somewhere that I would consider safe. Well, not safe, but at least should someone walk past and casually steal my laptop from underneath my finger tips, I would at least have more chance if catching the bastard. Should I drop the laptop and begin crying, the people watching the CCTV images would at least get a laugh too.

I’m sat in intense sunlight, with half my keyboard shadowed by the screen, as a result of having the sun increasing in height behind it. This has now shown to me how dusty and dirty my laptop actually is. It is terrible, and should my Mum see the state of it, she would moan and immediately fetch a cloth and some cleaning liquid to achieve the task of cleanliness. I am hopeful that seeing as there is a rather strong breeze, the dust will be blown away. Maybe this little assignment will help in my cleanliness…

So, as I sit back on the uncomfortable bench, and look over the laptop screen, I can see water, glistening, and full of movement as it flows in the direction of sea. On the other side of this water, I can see a runway, in which a plane is noisily manoeuvring itself on. Now pausing, the engines are increasing in speed and volume as I imagine the pilot asking for permission to fly. He clearly has it, as the sounds are increasing. The plane is taking a run up, forever increasing in speed, and as it moves away, the sound goes with it. And UP it goes, rather confidentially too. The plane is now en route to its destination, and all I can see now as I glance back up to the sky after my running commentary is a faint white shape which I imagine to be the plane.

Now it is quiet again, I can return to admiring the natural beauty of the water as the sun makes my black laptop rather hot and also making my jean laden legs becoming increasingly hotter. I spoke of silence too soon, as behind me I can hear the screeching brakes of a train and the far away sounds of another plane about to manoeuvre itself to the end of the runway so that it too can make a confident leap into the sky to get to a destination far away from the rudeness of London. The said plane is a CityJet, with its propellers spinning. Again he positions himself. Again he speeds up, and again he speeds off into the distance taking the loud sounds with it.

However, here comes a plane falling from the sky in the nervous, wobbly fashion they seem to always do. It shakes upon near contact with the runway. He puts his nose up and bum down. He has landed bum first with a little puff of smoke from the wheels as it lands. Now he chucks his nose down and as he now exists the runway to a designated area, here comes another plane; and he seems just as nervous as he flies in front of the sun and casts a shadow over me, if only for a split second, and he lands.  Now, all I can smell as the wind blows into my direction, is burning rubber and aeroplane fuel. Not exactly the smell of flowers and noise of birds singing that I get back at home in a lovely Kentish village.

Now it is quite again. The water looks filled with crystals. It is almost like God, if he existed, had dropped a pot of glitter onto the water. It hurts to look up, not only into the sun, but also into the pool of intense light that is sitting on the water in front of me. Birds are flying too. A seagull is floating in the sky, pointlessly and effortlessly, thanks to the help of the wind. I think he is lazy. Other seagulls sit on the water, and look at him, either in awe of their floating friend, or bitching about how lazy that other seagull is. It is hard to tell from the wooden bench I am perched on, which one it is.

There are other birds here too, but seeing as I am not Twitcher, I cannot reveal their names. I can only really, safely, tell the names of five types of bird: Seagulls, Pigeons, Ducks, Swans and Robbins. The other birds in front of me in the water are not one of those five. I would make a guess at it being some type of goose. There are few, baby ones sitting on the water and bobbing up and then down again, before bobbing up and down again, repeatedly. An adult, (what I am calling a) goose, is standing proudly on the edge of a bank and is constantly ruffling his feathers; I think he must have an itch which is bugging him.

I can see a reflection of myself in the laptop screen, and I can tell that my hair is almost dry from the sun and the wind. However, this may not be the style that I intended on. I look like a child who has just discovered the power of electricity and the importance of not putting metal objects into turned on plug sockets. It looks positively static…

I keep just looking at the water, and thinking. I am thinking many deep things which I will not divulge into, but I am also thinking about the water that I am starring into. Some waves look like they are part of some rolling mountains, which stretch as far as the eye can see, in miniature. Other waves are bigger, and I think they look slightly reminiscent of circus tents. I doubt anyone would agree with that observation however, and that is why I took it out twice, before becoming adamant that I was going to keep it in, no matter what.

I have just spotted the moon, well, half a moon. It is nearly eleven in the morning, and the moon is out. This phenomenon always intrigues me, and as I think about it, I feel sorry for Australia. It is night there, and they haven’t got a moon. We have it instead. The sounds ‘ha ha’ go through my mind now, actually.

People keep walking past me, with their haircuts and bags and purpose. Look, that boy is wearing a pink top. It so doesn’t go with those jeans! The people that walk past often stare at me, sat on a bench, alone, and typing. They probably think I am sat here writing some essay, but what they don’t realise is that the thousand or so words I have typed, are in fact just drivel.

I am looking out into the distance now, and I can see buildings. Old buildings, but not old enough to warrant paying £10 to walk about and look at the furniture and portraits. They are just old tower blocks that were built after the war. They look rather lovely, with the sun lighting one half, the shade covering another half, another plane flying in front of them and the soundtrack of sirens ringing around. London: It seems to be the only place where sirens try and harmonise with each other.

I am now just looking around, letting my brain wonder off, and there are now clouds in a sky which 10 minutes ago was absent of any. I would love to be able to tell you what types of clouds they are. If only I had brought the book I saw in WHSmiths yesterday! Instead, you’ll have to make do with my amateur, and cliché description of them being white and fluffy. It creates such a lovely and peaceful image in your head. However, in reality, I’m in East London, looking out onto an airport, with workmen drilling and trains clattering and screeching behind me. A million miles away from the peaceful lifestyle I once lived not two months ago. Well, in reality, it’s only 52 miles away.

My bum is beginning to hurt, so I shall end it here, with the clouds relieving me from the sun, if only for a few seconds, after an observation that I have just had whilst looking in the direction of Canary Wharf: Doesn’t the Millennium Dome just look like a dollop of ice cream with several biscuit wafers stuck in around the edge?”

James Bond With Added Funny Gas

It was a few weeks ago now, but I have seen Johnny English Reborn. This is the second Johnny English, with the first coming out in 2003 when I was just eleven years old. Since then, it has been my second favourite movie franchise, with the first being Toy Story. I know, in just three sentences I have made myself sound rather childish. That's showing and not telling y'know!

I love Rowan Atkinson. I love him for almost every role I have seen him play in sitcoms and films, as well as for his 80's satirical humour in 'Not The Nine O'Clock News' and his stand-up material (performing sketches on stage essentially). He is, in my opinion, the greatest comedian. Therefore, I was always going to be biased to thinking that Johnny English Reborn is the greatest movie I have seen in some time.

The cinema I went to was a fancy new cinema complex with more screens than Comet, all showing different movies. It was a Vue cinema, this one situated in Stratford (because that’s what the Olympics needs). I haven't actually been to a Vue cinema before, but the chairs where more reminiscent of sofas than they were flimsy fold-down chairs; and that was in the standard, working class section. The screen was so large that you have to turn your head to be able to look from one side of the screen to another, and the air conditioning was so powerful that you could keep an Igloo in there for as long as you liked. The experience itself was the most pleasant one I have had in a cinema; apart from the large queue for snacks, the price of the snacks and the fact that there were other people in the cinema.

Anyway, first of all, don't go to see the movie to expect a movie similar to the first one. It is on a much larger scale, with a more believable and serious storyline which has tragedy, as well as moments of ecstatic, Atkinson-esque, pleasure. Think of it as more of a James Bond movie, with funny gas being pumped into the cinema. It is on that sort of large scale. It has a story line which could easily be adapted for a serious spy movie.

We join English in Tibet, learning Martial Arts after becoming a disgraced spy some years prior after a failed mission in Mozambique. MI7 need him back for a mission to foil a plot to kill the Chinese Premier. Along with his new sidekick, Tucker, he goes to Hong Kong to find people affiliated with a project named 'Vortex'. Humour ensues countless times, which involve a yacht chase, a game of golf and helicopter flying. MI7 then try to assassinate him, before a hilarious conclusion which involves Atkinson wearing lipstick, dancing to Word Up by Korn ("Wave your hands in the air like you don’t care"), some groin kicks, some wrestling with self, and having a fight scene in a cable car; all of which demonstrations the brilliance of his physical comedy. The movie then ends after English has attacked the Queen.

A very short synopsis there, but a lot more comedy ensues. I haven't laughed that much at a film for as long as I can remember; and I had watched the first Johnny English movie the evening prior to seeing Reborn. It certainly held up to my expectations and then superseded them.

The film also includes a greater cast, included Gillian Anderson (of X-Files fame), who was great for the role of Head of MI7, and Dominic West (of The Wire fame), who was great at playing the 'unexpected' villain of the film. Atkinson's acting was great too, and it is sometimes hard to believe that this is the man from Mr Bean and Blackadder. Also, remembering he is now 56, it is great to see him still able to perform such brilliant physical comedy, with his trademark high kicks and performing many stunts himself, such as driving a jet-powered Wheelchair through the streets of London.

I would recommend the film to anyone with the smallest of funny bones. I reckon it could make almost everyone at least snigger on numerous occasions. The film isn't a silly, half-term film which is meant for just children, but it is instead a film which the whole family could enjoy; I'm sure of it. Its adult story line makes sure of that. The comedy too will appeal to anyone. It is an all-round movie. I urge you to see it; even if you wait for it to come out on DVD. Films transfer onto DVD so quickly these days. It's not as if you'll have to wait long.

I don't know how else to put across how much I enjoyed this film. I do not understand why critics have been so harsh to this film. I think it's brilliant. Much better than any of your pouncey Twilight rubbish that you watch. I mean The Inbetweeners movie? If you 'claim to like comedy' that much, then you should see this. It's adult and childish at the same time, without any needless, apparently funny, swearing.

If you do go and see it at the cinema, do make sure you sit through the credits and wait patiently. You will not regret it. Out of a packed cinema, only 7 people remained at the end to watch one of the funniest Rowan Atkinson skits I have seen. It involves him, preparing a casserole, in sync to a piece of classical music (Edvard Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King - a piece of music everyone will recognise when they hear it). It is brilliant, and I'm saying that as a devoted fan of his visual antics, and think of it as a perfect example of what Atkinson can achieve, with just simple, everyday items. I was in awe of that final performance, as well as giggling like I would have when I was eleven years old.

Ashamed To Be Human

I have concluded I don't suit the human race. I think I would be much more comfortable at being part of another species on planet Earth, such as a rabbit or a tortoise. They always seem quite happy and contented and unbothered by what is happening in the news. A rabbit’s hutch will be lined with newspaper, but being a rabbit I wouldn't be able to read the text nor really be able to understand the context of the pictures. And even if I could understand it, I'd either eat or poo on the offending article. It's easy as a rabbit. I can even wiggle my nose and ears like a rabbit. Maybe I was meant to be a rabbit? Or if you believe in reincarnation, maybe I was once a rabbit. I wish I had a simple life like a rabbit, where I couldn't get offended.

Why am I considering the rabbit’s life? Well, the news the past two days has completely depressed, revolted and ashamed me. I am part of a species that murders. I know it's hardly a news flash: “Human Race Murder”. I'm thinking more about a specific murder carried out yesterday; a murder of a bad man. A terrible man. A man most would agree didn't deserve to live in the first place. However, what has bothered me more is not the murder itself, but the aftermath. His death has been glorified, and that is what I have a problem with.

Almost every newspaper carried a picture, on the front page, of Colonel Gadaffi. His lifeless face, covered with blood and a bullet hole in his head, is a picture which can be seen everywhere today. The Mirror had the worst, most disgusting picture and The Sun had a headline, which seemed to be full of pride at his death: "That's For Lockerbie", with the sub-heading "And for Yvonne Fletcher. And IRA Semtex Bomb victims." That headline is typical of The Sun, and its approach to anything done by, or as a result of, our Army. They are often blinded by a sense of pride. Morality doesn't come into their field of approach to news stories like this.

I hate myself for having to put his picture in my blog, but I just wanted to share the front cover. You can hate me and call me hypocritical if you like...

It comes to something when the human race uses technology to spread footage of a man being tortured and killed, all done within minutes of the event happening. Within an hour of hearing about the capture and possible death of Gadaffi, I was seeing pictures on the BBC Website, and video footage on their news channel, of his dead, bloodied and beaten body. The BBC defended it, by stating that they used the video to convey the scale of the "dramatic and gruesome" events. This is the same for every international news outlet in the country. To me, that is just seems wrong. It seems inhuman to put the face of a dead man everywhere; we wouldn't even treat an animal in that way.

Of course, we have to appreciate that as a nation, we are cynical enough to take the opinion that we won't believe something until we have seen it, and studied it for ourselves. Seeing as we can't all fly to Libya and poke the body ourselves; video footage is the next best thing. Saying to news outlets that they cannot show the pictures in their papers, and websites and news channels would be censorship, and I am against censorship. I just believe that we don't need to see these pictures over and over and over and over again. He isn't a very attractive man in the first place, let alone dead, bruised and bloodied. Why couldn't it just be confined to the Internet and after the watershed on TV? It seems wrong to have this man, who has essentially been 'happy slapped', in this state, as a picture to symbolise Thursday 20th October 2011.

To take an extreme view; we wouldn't do this to a victim. If Gadaffi had captured, then beaten and killed an innocent person in public and filmed it and uploaded the video to the Internet, the media would handle the whole event with moral decency. The same was done with Osama Bin Laden in May. We had a blurry, inconspicuous picture of a body said to be him, which was plastered everywhere. It seems revolting to do this, time after time. WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!

It seems the newspapers have become the medieval equivalent to putting heads of bad people, on spikes for others to treat as they will. It dehumanised them. Now, the papers print the picture of a lifeless head on the front page instead.

There is also the argument of whether he should have been killed in the first place, and even the circumstances of the death are hazy. We have a video of Gadaffi in a bad way, being dragged through the streets of his home town, after been beaten up and having blood pouring off of his face. Then the next video we have is of him lying dead with a small bullet hole. Apparently it was cross fire. However, chances are, it was an emotional person, who probably knew some victims of Gadaffi's regime, and then, consumed with hate, put a gun to his head and blew his brains out (metaphorically).

However, now he is dead, people will never know the truth. People will never know his darkest secrets (which is possibly a relief for Western countries, who were heavily affiliated with him). He can never be tried in court, and can never be punished in the humanly correct way. Many questions will remain unanswered. How can a 'new Libya' claim to be any better than Gadaffi, when they begin like this? But then again, his trial was expected to have taken 10 year. It could be said to have been a waste of money and time. I know I will still disagree with his death, and especially how our media have dealt with it.

If God existed, and I was him, I would be putting the human race on the naughty step. No, don't argue and sulk, you done a bad thing, now sit there quietly until I say so; especially you media bastards!

Guardian Debate: How Can The Press Restore Trust

"Once we lose reporters, we're fucked!"

Unless you have spent the past few months on a cloud numbered nine, been in a submarine or in a coma, you will be fully aware of the phone hacking scandal of July 2011 at News of The World. It shocked and horrified our nation, as well as confusing us about whether to sympathise or hate the frail or conniving Rupert Murdoch. Since then, in fact long before then, the public have lost the trust they once invested in Journalism. Journalists are now probably somewhere just above lawyers and estate agents. On this very topic, The Guardian organised a small, public debate; a post hacking debate in which they were discussing ways in which the press can restore the trust.

This Guardian event happened on the 29th September 2011 at The Royal Institute of Great Britain, situated in one the poshest roads in one of the poshest areas of London. I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity to attend this event for free. After a trip through London at rush hour on the Underground, a trip which involved a shoulder in the eye and a tube door shutting on my head, I attended the event, looking rather underdressed in my jeans and check shirt. I then sat in a small theatre with inadequate leg room for someone of the slightly above average male-height of 6 foot. I was now sat in a room filled with Journalists, Investigative Journalists and other, media-savvy people. This was a great place to be sat in the middle of for a Student Journalist.

The room filled and then the five established names took to their seats before a short introductory video began. It started with the clip from Fox News during the height of the scandal, in which the news anchor, interviewing Rupert Murdoch, was being told what not to ask by his interviewee before apologising in a cringe-worthy manner. Following that, there was a talking head video of various figures from The Guardian, discussing the course of events including numerous other clips, such as the embarrassing one of Murdoch saying it ‘was the most humble day of my life' to the MPs.

The line-up for this debate consisted of Kristian Guru Murphy, who chaired the event. We had Carl Bernstein, an American investigative journalist who largely reported the Watergate politics scandal for The Washington Post back in 1972 in America. Sylvie Kauffman was next to him, who is the current editor for Le Monde in France. George Eustice is a Conservative politician who has had some large roles in the party, including Press Secretary for David Cameron, who was later succeeded by Andy Coulson: who is a man largely wrapped up in this whole scandal. Alan Rusbridger was also proudly present, and he is the editor for The Guardian. He started off the debate by taking to the stand to give an opening statement.

Guru Murphy then asked the others to give an opening statement to this debate. Carl Bernstein stated that 'Hackgate' was only as a result of the consumer’s wants and needs, but agreed that the press abused their rights to freedom of speech and expression. George Eustice then agreed about the 'using and abusing', but also stated that Journalists would regularly distort the news out of malice. He then went on to knock plans to have a 'Journalists Register' (the equivalent to a sex offenders registers), which would strike off Journalists who break the law.

Sylvie Kauffmann then gave her statement, in which compared our press to that of the French. She said they have no tabloid press, which is the result of a cultural difference and the public having no appetite for those kinds of stories. She actually noted an opposite scandal in France, in which Special Intelligence spy on reporters. This was completely rejected by a French audience member, who stated that Journalists in France undertake the same methods as the British. Alan Rusbridger claimed that the scandal is a result of a PCC failure. He argued that increased regulation could endanger the freedom of the press and a Journalist Register would go back to 1694, when Journalists could be heavily punished for libels.

After an opinionated reaction from Bernstein, who seemed to completely disagree with what Rusbridger had just said, the debate was opened up to questions from the audience. The questions tackled the accumulation of power for News Corporation, in which Rusbridger stated that MPs are trying to stop it, such as the BSkyB bid; albeit last minute, and Kauffmann said the answer is simply more regulation.

Other subjects questioned included tabloids, such as it being impossible to compare tabloid and broadsheet press due to them having a hunger for different stories, and also questioning the limits of privacy. Bernstein answered these questions in saying that responsibility needs to be taken by the corporations, and also that they need to be transparent in their methods and how money is being spent. Bernstein also answered a question about the limits of investigative journalism, in which he thought that the law should not be broken to get a story, but it can still be justified on occasion. He then continued saying that the Watergate investigation was legal and that he would have never hacked phones.

Before the participants gave their closing statements, Kristian Guru Murphy took a poll regarding regulation. Not many people agreed that the answer was more regulation or that we currently have the right level of regulation. Interestingly, a third agreed the answer was less regulation; the same amount of people in the room who were also Journalists.

Bernstein thought that the way to restore trust, something all institutions have lost, is basically through good reporting. Kauffmann said there is no simple answer to restoring trust and that the public needed to decide the media they want. She also said that Journalists, Blogger's and Twitterer's should have the same ethics. On the issue of trust, Eustice stated that in Britain, we have the most trusted broadcasters but the least trusted newspapers, and that this was an issue. Rusbridger thought that regulation, so long as it was effective, was the answer, as well as transparency and the want for organisations to correct themselves too. The debate ended with Rusbridger's final words being "Once we lose reporters, we're fucked!"

So the conclusion? Well, there didn't seem to be a conclusive one. There are many different opinions in which way to restore trust. I think we are just going to have to wait for the results from Lord Leveson's Inquiry next year before really being able to answer the question.