Seven Years and Not Counting

It’s with sadness that I announce that this blog post, the one which you have just started reading, is the final addition to The Blog of Stuart.

D'you want to know a secret?

A few weeks into this website’s life, I was already regretting the name and URL I had gifted it. But I was already too invested in it to give up. Plus, it formed part of my BTEC in IT, so I had to keep it going. It’s safe to say, I’m the only one in my class who even kept it up this long. Most barely made it past their first short upload.

I’ve looked after it for 7 years now, and, as a result, has formed a massive part of my life. I would honestly not be where I am now without it. I’m not even sure I would have noted how much I like to write without it.

Courtesy of Chris Parsons
(Click to enlarge)

I’ve documented a large portion of my life on here. Everything from the years I spent as a desperate single to a learner driver, university student and an unemployed graduate. I’ve covered it all, and you’ve shared it all with me; whether you liked it or not.

I’ve received all different types of feedback too. It’s included my head teacher discussing it at a presentation evening in front of my cohort. And everything else from lovely and sincere comments to people who have taken the time to email so I know how much they hate me. It’s all pretty incredible really.

And although my blog hasn’t gone viral, I still think it’s been quite successful. Much more so than it probably ever deserved. I've been averaging about 1,000 hits a month, for years. A lot of which are from irrelevant Google searches from a huge array of countries across the world, which amount to zero engagement… But still.

So I should have probably worked on the marketing of it slightly better, and actually offered them something other than throwing my extraneous opinion at them. There’s enough of them on the Internet after all.

I worked out what my voice should be in my second year of University. What I should have to make me different to all the other bleating on the Internet. That sparked the creation of the blog, and dissertation project, The Misanthrope’s Guide to London. Even though it had little success on the Internet, I got brilliant feedback from people who took the time to read it. People were enjoying it.

So it is that vein where my next project will go.

I’m not a fan of change, so that’s why it has taken me this long to bring The Blog of Stuart to a close.

I’ve been saying for a few years that I wanted to shake off the shackles of Blogspot and begin my own website and start afresh.

However, over the past few months, I’ve begun formulating what my next move will be. I’ve just been too scared to buy the webspace. This has meant I’ve been stuck in a circle I’m finally attempting to break. I didn’t want to produce more content for a website I would soon be closing but didn’t want to move from its comforting embrace.

That’s why I have written this. It’s my resignation letter, so to speak. I’ve informed you of my intention, and now I can’t go back for fear of embarrassment.

I now own a plot web space, and I've begun constructing the site. This is how it's coming along...

My new website is called The Misanthrope. It should feel like a news website, in terms of its look and content. However, don’t expect it be serious. The Misanthrope voice will prevail.

I will be venturing into multi-media blogging as well. I have some video editing software, and I have a number of ideas, so we shall see. I may not even make it past the first video for fear of hating myself just a little bit more.

Although I am excited to be starting my new project soon, I am very sad that I am finally saying goodbye. This blog has been a good friend to me and helped me out a lot.

I gave this website as an example of writing when I applied to Universities. I got multiple offers, so it can’t have put them off that much. It’s interesting to read blogs I’ve written before and after University to see my progression.

Anyway, I then used this blog as an example of writing when applying for jobs. Numerous times I’ve sat and watched a prospective boss reading my website on the other side of a desk and seen a wry smirk appear, and it's flattering. It was particularly interesting when one, from London, read my Misanthrope’s Guide to London blog. And okay, it did take me a while to get a job…

But I had two jobs for a period of time. One was working in a shop, where I had to interact with people. I didn't really like it because you’re not allowed to argue back with them, you have to be nice and smile. I can feel my throat tightening every time. Regardless, I very recently left this job thanks to getting more hours at my other, better, job...

The other job involves writing. And I’m allowed to be funny, so long as I also engage the reader in such a way, they want to stay on the website, and hopefully spend their money.

I’m getting paid to write blogs; how awesome is that? And I can’t see how else that would have happened without this blog.

But as I start a new chapter in my life, which involves the increase of my bank balance, it seems right to move to pastures new. After all, I can call myself a professional writer now, so I need to put this aside and start producing content one might expect from a professional…

Yeah, the thought of that is pretty funny.

But I can try, right?

So that’s it. These are my final words.

I don’t want to draw this out any longer.

Courtesy of Chris Parsons
(Click to enlarge)

Consider this blog closed. Out of service. Bereft of life. An ex-blog. Gone off to meet the big server in the sky and pushing up the virtual daisies.

Toodles m’deary’s.

I'm the Cockney Chameleon without a Job

Over three years ago I wrote a blog announcing that I would soon be moving to London, where I would be attending the University of East London to study Journalism and Creative and Professional Writing. I spoke mostly about how worried I was about having to endure the local language, and how I was fearful of catching Cockney, and becaming alll Landan like. I now write this blog post, having completed my degree and moved out of our outrageously-priced South London flat that overlooked the Thames.

I confidently stipulated that I was 'not worried about picking up the accent and the slang however, because I'm very hard to influence.' Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to have been the case. Many people have been noting that I have a slight Landan twang. Luckily, I don't think it's critical, and I should be able to recover; in time at least.

However, I have become somewhat of a chameleon, being able to assume a persona which is similar to those around me. Back home in Kent, I am a bumbling, slightly posh-sounding lad. Should a Cockney gas engineer enter our flat, my language and personality change; partly in a foolish attempt to sound more manly and in a desperate attempt to be accepted. "Alright mate? How's traffic get'in 'ere? Bin busy? You still got your motors?" And so on.

A drawing for A Misanthrope's Guide to London, by Chris Parsons.
(Click to enlarge)

Our flat was very nice; apart from the constant presence of gas engineers having to resuscitate our boiler back into life. Oh, and apart from the numerous water leaks; all those magical evenings spent mopping up water from under the now bowed laminate flooring. Mind you, that's made up for by the evenings I spent watching the woman across the road get naked with her blinds still open; until she noticed. Those memories will remain with me for a long time. However, not as long as the dent left in my savings by paying nearly £1,000 a month for a flat. We could have never afforded that place if it wasn't for our generous student loans.

It's a cliché I've heard an innumerable amount of times, but those three years at University really did fly past. It doesn't seem that long ago since myself, my other half and a box of half-eaten pizza, were abandoned in Landon by my parents and left to endure the next chapter of our lives. Well, that chapter is finished, and it ended with us getting 2:1s, so yes, thank you for your congratulation. However, my grade is still a sore point. I was less than 1% away from a 1st. 0.4% more would have given me a 1st. And you know what? I can pinpoint the exact mistake in my dissertation that lost me that higher grade. If I had just italicised the words A Misanthrope's Guide to London, in the handful of times I wrote them together, I think I would have gotten a 1st. FOR FU...

Anyway, it was a mixed three years. I met lots of, as everyone says, awesome and amazing people who were mostly all far more talented than I. Some modules I loved and excelled at, and others I hated and just about scraped through. There is something about Sociology that makes me look and feel like I've just had a lobotomy. The next time someone talks me about the similarity between Adorno's theory of the Culture Industry and Marxism, I think I'll go into a coma from which I'll never awaken.

The Creative and Professional Writing side of my degree has proved invaluable, and despite feeling trepidation about what it would entail, I absolutely loved almost every minute. It made me read books I never would have, and yet enjoyed. It pushed me to constantly improve my writing, which having read some of my old stuff, is glaringly obvious. It has even made me look at my own writing very differently, and I have produced pieces I could not be prouder of. My dissertation project A Misanthrope's Guide to London, is one such example where I have really honed my style of writing. That is in no little part thanks to the teaching on the course.

At the start, I was most looking forward to the Journalism side of my studies, and I did very well and learnt a great deal. However, towards the end I dreaded Journalism modules. That was, in the most part, because I felt a great deal of resentment towards the fact that no matter how well I did, I would still not be qualified to be a Journalist, and would still find it immensely hard to get into a profession where experienced journalists are being culled, rather than new ones being hired. By the end, I had lost my desire to be a journalist; for now at least. Unfortunately, that in part also falls on the below-par teaching for journalism my University offers.

So, the bit of paper has now finally arrived confirming my attainment of a 2:1, and three months after finishing University, I am the stereotypical graduate who is failing to get any sort of job. Currently, the past few years look to have all been a delaying tactic for going on Job Seeker's Allowance. There are various reasons for this, such the little experience I hold, and trying to get a career in a specific sector. However, a large reason for this is because there has been a major push in apprenticeships by the Government. It means jobs that might have once gone to the likes of people like me, are now going to younger people who can be hired for a criminally low wage for a couple of years, whilst getting on-the-job training. If I was 18 years old now, and looking at what to do, I think I would be looking at being an apprentice too.

However, I keep sending out CVs in all directions (probably approaching a figure of around 40), and only getting responses from a few. Two job interviews in three months. The sad and depressing life of a graduate. Maybe it's because of my accent which has become tapestrised. Or the fact my University is at the bottom of the league tables; despite being a great place. It could be because of the economy, or that fact I am part of, what the media keeps calling 'the lost generation'. Possibly it is due to so many hundreds of thousands of young adults having a degree, it has become a worthless piece of paper. It could be because I have about as much professional experience as a foetus, and being stuck in the paradox of needing experience to get a job, but not being able to get the necessary experience. Who knows?

Regardless, if you're an employer looking for a marketing assistant/junior (or something not too dissimilar) somewhere in Kent, who's ideal candidate is a misanthropic, yet slightly amusing and committed individual, then I'm your guy!

P.S. I know prospective employers are reading this blog, because I put it on my CV, so why not beg? If you don't ask, you don't get… I am highly skilled after all.

P.P.S. I am aware that I'm applying for jobs that are not marketing related, and that plea might be off putting to other jobs; but I'm versatile and not as picky as perhaps I might have sounded. I'll do anything... apart from telesales anyway.

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?”